


Wounded and Flawless

by Scavengersdaughter2



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol, Alcoholic!Sheriff, Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, Anal Sex, Angst, Anorexia, Anxiety, Bulimia, Child Abuse, Depression, Drug Abuse, Eating Disorder, Emotionally Constipated Derek, First Time, M/M, Medical stuff, Panic Attacks, Purging, Scars, Seizures, Self Harm, Stiles Stilinski's Name is Genim, Teacher-Student Relationship, Underage Drinking, What Have I Done, and references, and symbolism, author abuses characters, coach!derek, im so sorry, lots and lots of drugs, nerd stuff out the yang, stiles is a sassy lil shit, this one is a lil depressing, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-18
Updated: 2016-02-26
Packaged: 2018-03-13 15:53:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 79,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3387557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scavengersdaughter2/pseuds/Scavengersdaughter2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fighting it wasn't an option; he was trapped. He was alone. And he was scared.</p><p>Or the one where Stiles is dealing with his dad, a plethora of suppressed feelings, and a very douchey (and hot) coach.</p><p>He never said his way of 'dealing' was healthy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. To sleep, perchance to dream

**Author's Note:**

> So.  
> Please read this note.  
> It contains pertinent information for the story.  
> Seriously. Important stuff down below.
> 
> Wounded and Flawless is…let’s call it a derivative from another story of mine, Broken. I wrote that and I was like, ‘This should totally be an AU’. So that’s what I did.  
> I will be deleting Broken shortly after posting this.
> 
> And I have some suspicions about Stiles’ mom and her Frontotemporal Dementia (as in, usually patients go a little…unstable…so I’m building off of that).
> 
> For those of you that didn’t read Broken before I deleted it… Skip the next paragraph (or not. Go ahead. Be a rebel).
> 
> I know I’m going to get comments so let me clear some things up. There are some similar scenes (similar one-liners in some cases as well). I mean, it starts off in basically the same way. Please know, it doesn’t follow the same story line. Scenes may have a basic layout but that’s as far as it goes. And no, it doesn’t have the same ending (because I’m kind and figured no one needs any more heart trauma). And I promise you, the writing is better.
> 
> Oh and please keep your criticism kind. I’m a fragile bunny floating through this universe. 
> 
> Chapter titles taken from Shakespeare's 'Hamlet'
> 
> OK. I’m done. Please read and enjoy.

Stiles was seriously beginning to reconsider his choice in friends.

He was up at ass o’ clock, running through the woods, trying to find Scott’s phone. Stiles fancied himself a regular Frank Hardy (which made Scott, however reluctant at times, Joe). He was no stranger to breaking the law to sate whatever fleeting curiosity he had. Stiles liked it. The thrill and knowledge. When his best friend of fourteen years had approached him with a plan to wander the woods at night, (“For science…OK, don’t give me that look. Allison wants a new make out spot.”) Stiles’ first response was no. The Dark Was A Terrifying Thing And He Was Very Afraid. But he considered himself a good friend. Amazing, even. Amazing enough to shove the fear down. So he said yes and Scott clapped him on the shoulder, sporting his biggest and goofiest grin. Oh yes, definitely top marks in the friend subject.  

Ten minutes in, they heard a wolf howl (were wolves the only animals that howled? Maybe he should have done more research before going out into the wilderness) that sounded way too close for comfort. Quest forgotten, they ran; metaphorical tails tucked firmly between their legs. The Jeep was pretty far away. Stiles spared a glance at Scott. His face was barely visible. The moon provided scarce lighting and he was a little breathless. Not necessarily from running. Flashes to when he was six and the black of the closet may have well been the tenth circle of Hell. His mother’s soothing voice from the other side of the door (‘It’s OK, honey. The monsters can’t get you’. _But mom, what if it’s not the monsters that I’m afraid of?_ ). 

Both continued running, breathing growing labored. Scott halted mid step and hit his front pockets. Stiles skidded a foot in front of him as his brain caught up to his legs, ‘stop running’. He turned to question his friend about the stop, frustration evident on his face (some of his frustration was faked, he was glad for the reprieve. Scott didn’t need to know that, though). 

Frantic exhales made Scott’s mouth jerk open and closed. Thank goodness he grew out of his asthma years ago or this brief escapade would render him…well, dead.

“Dude, I dropped my phone,” he’d managed to get out around his panting, the idiot. And because Stiles had agreed thus far, he couldn’t say no when his friend suggested they look for it alone.

“It’ll be better if we split up, we can find it way faster. You have the flashlight on your phone and I have this one. You know, every little thing is goin’ be alright.” 

Stiles scoffed. “OK, first, don’t quote The Great One to justify your stupidity. Second, the only reason you have a flash light is because your phone’s so crappy it doesn’t have one. Which, in my humble opinion, is why we should just go home and forget it. Seriously, your phone sucks. And it’s definitely not worth getting eaten by wolves.” 

“But-” and then he went into a tirade about how if he was a true friend then he’d go back ‘plus Allison’s nudes are in there and you wouldn’t deprive me of that, would you?’ so begrudgingly, Stiles nodded. He would do it. His chest rose and fell quicker at the prospect of being alone in the woods. He was scared. It felt like a haunted house he couldn’t escape from. At any moment, he was ready for some under-paid actor in monster makeup to jump out and yell ‘boo’. 

The fluffy haired teen walked away, exuding confidence in his decision to go it alone. He was illuminated only by the flashlight he carried. Stiles stood and watched until he became a floating ball, bouncing up and down. Maybe it wasn’t Scott. Maybe it was a Will o’ the Wisp, beckoning him to follow. _OK, Stiles. This is not the time. Did you take your meds today? No? Great._

The plan was simple enough. Just find the phone. But oh no, the divine power of the cosmos had decided once again to interfere in Stiles’ pathetic excuse for a life. He was half crouched, ankle-high in dead leaves. His finesse was equivalent to that of a paraplegic walrus so it came as no surprise when a twig snapped audibly under his foot. He cringed.

Maybe the wolf hadn’t heard it?…Who was he kidding? Freaking Mozart would’ve heard it.

His body sang with the urge to run. To get up, leave Scott, and just run. The urge grew but he pushed it down. His self-preservation instincts were crap, he was aware of this. No point in trying to change them now. He held his breath and mentally ticked off the seconds. When seven passed, he stood up. A breath of relief hadn’t even left his mouth before crunching sounded from his left. 

“Scott?” he asked and aimed his phone’s light. Standing between the trees, with hackles raised and teeth bared, was a wolf. His knowledge of large mammalian predators was greatly lacking (though, if he went to Australia, his knowledge would be immense). What size qualified as a monster and what was average? How does one even handle not dying? Options. He did have options. Run or stay put? Play dead or make noises to scare it off? Stumbling backwards, he glanced in its eyes. OK, run. Definitely run. He turned and sprinted. Heavy foot falls sounded behind him and he did not squeal.  

Stiles weaved his way through the trees, the brown foliage of the forest floor crunching beneath him. His whole being became centralized around two points. Blood pumping in his ears and the pounding of his feet on the hard ground. The pain in his legs and lungs was forgotten. Put into a box to be taken out for examination when he wasn’t in danger of being killed. He stopped an agonizing ten minutes later. If he didn’t, he was going to pass out. So he crossed his heart and hoped he doesn’t die immediately while halting his steps. No creature tore out his back so everything was going relatively well.

“OK, _The Grey._ What would Liam Neeson do?” WWLND, that would make a really cool t-shirt.  _Your life literally depends on it, try and focus._ OK, well, wolves had families, right? Like, their packs. They had leaders and a hierarchy. Which begged the question, where were the others? And come to think of it, that movie didn’t have a happy ending. _This isn’t the Alaskan wilderness. Just find Scott, get to your Jeep, and leave,_ his rational mind said. He looked around. Man, it was dark. Stiles felt his right pocket and in that moment, the universe should have just imploded; the phone had been in his hand. When did he drop it? He scanned the brush surrounding his feet. Why, why, Oh mighty Ra, did he drop his phone? How had he not noticed how dark it was? Scott does that. He’s the one who drops his phone in the wilderness, not Stiles.

He tried channeling Zeno of Citium, the founder of stoicism, from wherever he was. “Ok, calm acceptance of destiny. Indifference towards the vicissitudes of fortune. Ugh, you know what? Screw this. Stupid Scott and his stupid need to go into the forest…” Stiles said, frustration teetering greatly towards full blown anger. Zeno was probably rolling in his grave. 

He continued walking, now on the lookout for two phones and a best friend. Twenty minutes passed. The scenery was lost on him. His eyes could occasionally make out vague shapes. Tree. Tree. Bush. Boulder shaped like Michigan. Tre- wait. He back tracked to the rock. The same one he’d passed two times before. Just peachy. He had absolutely no sense of direction. Stiles absentmindedly brushed off his shoulder from the tickles dancing across his flesh. He’d read an article a month prior about the invisible crawlies on your skin: Yuputka. An Ulwan word for the creepy feeling that bugs are crawling on you (usually while wandering through the woods at night, hardy har har). Beautiful language, Ulwa was. Many tribes in Nicaragua and Honduras spoke- 

A muffled growl came from his left. He slowly turned, dreading the inevitable. His surroundings were seen through a veil of darkness but the monster in front of him was perfectly illuminated. The wolf stood, clutched in its teeth was the head of his best friend. The breath caught in Stiles’ throat. His feet were planted to the ground. His body frozen in fear. He heard the _thump_ of the head hitting the earth and after a beat, pain bloomed in his stomach. Warmth pooled down his front. Then, everything was black.

   
 ~ ~ ~

 

Stiles screamed. The thin cotton of the sheets did little to soften the nails pressed into his palms. Tiny crescent marks threatened to draw blood. The black in front of his eyes only contributed to the growing panic. His breathing refused to slow until it stopped altogether. He managed another strangled scream before the bedroom door burst open and his father came in, police-issued fire arm pointing at the invisible threat. John quickly put his gun down when his search for a threat came up empty. There was no intruder; his son was having a panic attack. He propped Stiles into a sitting position and put an arm around his son’s back. An unconscious action. Maybe that bit of physical contact would make things better. 

“OK, Stiles. Breathe with me. In and out.” John breathed, hoping Stiles would reciprocate the action. He didn’t. He couldn’t. Black spots danced in front of his eyes and he prayed to any god out there that his death wouldn’t come at the hands of a panic attack (‘Dear Thor, please protect me somehow. Mjolnir can be used for more than just summoning lightning, I’m sure’). John continued rubbing soothing circles into the teen’s back. The horrors before Stiles’ eyes were lost on his father.

There was a moment; minutes later, when the clouds cleared and Stiles was able to draw in a shaky breath. Once. Twice. 

“OK. Yeah, I think I’m good now. I just- it was another nightmare,” Stiles said, voice as small as he felt. The light was on. It helped chase the shadows away. 

“Well, do you want to talk about it?” 

And like most teenagers, the thought of discussing his innermost thoughts and fears with his parental figure was revolting. So no, he didn’t want to talk about it. 

“No, seriously, I’m good.” 

John looked at his son worriedly. “Are you sure? I don’t have to be at work for another couple hours-” 

“I’m fine, just go to bed. I’ll come get you if I need you.” 

He wasn’t fine.

The man already had enough to deal with at work. Stiles’ problems were petty. Unimportant. The rejection from his best friend, the super douche that was dating his childhood crush, the comments made by his new coach. 

His father left the room after that. 

There was no way he was going back to that mess of a dream world, so he stayed awake and continued his hopeless mission to count every bump in the ceiling. Two hundred thirty three. Two hundred thirty four.

The anxiety came in waves. Stiles stood on a shore. The sand soft between his toes and the smell of rotten seaweed permeating the damp air. He was at the edge. Water licked his feet. That’s OK, though. Just a little bit won’t hurt him. It rose higher. Tickled his ankles. Chilled his knees. And when he gathered enough sense that, oh no the water is too high, he was powerless. The water shoved against his stomach and pushed at his chest. His head was submerged, breath successfully cut off. The water would recede, growing calm. 

And then there was the depression. It wasn’t like the anxiety; it was a whole crushing flood. The water never receded. Stiles would just be walking away from the shore, deciding he’d had enough of being stuck in the waves. He’d be walking and it would rain. And rain. And rain. He could see the flood barreling down the road. Back in first grade, he might as well not taken those swim classes with what little use they served now. He would call out for help, there were several people on the street with him when the water came but- they’re gone now. He was alone. And it was a nasty thing to be trapped in. It would play with his insecurities. Feed off of his self-loathing. Become stronger, until it wasn’t manageable. Until it consumed his thoughts and soon all that occupied Stiles’ mind was what made him worthless.

He needed to stop being such a piece of crap at everything. Maybe if he was better at lacrosse. More interesting. Maybe if he didn’t have ADHD.  Maybe then people would like him more. And it went a lot deeper than that. His mother’s slow decline and eventual death. His father’s drinking. 

The feeling was becoming too intense again. Stiles tried wading through the murky water but he kept getting sucked under. When he thought he could swim, the current changed and he was swept away again. Escape was impossible. He dragged himself out of bed, fully awake. The door was locked and the blinds closed. Stiles took the pencil sharpener from the top drawer of his desk. A pair of green tweezers made quick work of unscrewing the blade. He sat on the edge of the bed, sleeves rolled up to reveal dozens of scars and wounds in various stages of healing. A mottle of reds, whites, and purples. He pressed the tiny piece of metal against pale skin.  

Relief came instantly. He watched the wound well up with blood and fall onto the floor in tiny crimson droplets. The movement of his hand was habitual. Instinctual. The blade swept across his flesh. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. His arm was covered in the red liquid. He felt something other than anxiety. Other than the crushing sadness. He felt alive. That blood running down his arm was _his_ blood. He was alive.

He finished basking in the after-glow that cutting brought and stood up. The rushing of blood in his ears was too loud. He wobbled and caught himself with one arm on the wall beside the door. The dizzy spell passed. He hobbled to the bathroom across the hall, avoiding the carpet directly in front of his door. The wooden boards under it tended to squeak. And a squeak was sure to reach his father’s open door. Sometimes he swore his father had specifically chosen that room for him when he was younger so he couldn’t sneak out when he grew up. 

Stiles cleaned the blood from his body and flushed the evidence. His serpentine maneuvers were employed and he made it back to his room, only pausing in the hallway twice after accidental missteps. He reassembled the pencil sharpener with shaking hands.  

Being realistic, he knew the whole sleeping thing still wasn’t going to happen. He took a seat in the swivel chair at his desk.

The desk was a cheap thing made to look simple and modern but truthfully, it had almost no real function. The back legs collapsed if anything more than ten pounds was placed on it. His dad bought it for him two years earlier and during a particularly heated wrestling match between him and Scott, it was crushed. Stiles’ victory was short lived. Only the genius of two fourteen year olds and a hot glue gun could put it back together. When his father ventured into the room now, he spared no glances at the desk that was so organized. Ignoring the fact that Stiles, by definition, is not ‘organized’. He was waiting for the day when the man brought one of the boxes of books from the basement his mom had hoarded over the years. Knowing Stiles’ love for reading, he’d just plop it down on the compromised structure.

He’d burn that bridge when he got to it.

Stiles went through a mental list of all his classes. Couldn’t get behind on homework, right? He ticked off the names one by one, pausing at English. Mrs. PoS would give an assignment if the world was ending in an atomic battle and then on top of the nuclear winter he’d have to deal with two pages of diagramming sentences. He wasn’t sure if he could cope with that.

Finishing his list and finding that no, there wasn’t any work, he opened up Safari (because Internet Explorer sucks eggs) and entered the debatably wonderful world of Tumblr. He would definitely deny to anyone that half of the time was spent worshipping Chris Evans’ beautiful shoulder-to-hip ratio. Great Odin’s ravens, the man was shaped like a Dorito! 

At three thirty, there was a knock on the door. His dad looked exhausted. Stiles’ less rational mind said it was his fault. He hugged his father and went back to the computer. He popped an Adderall when his mind started to wander. 

 

At six, it was time to get ready for school. He closed out of his blog (yes, he had just spent three and a half hours staring at gifs of a celebrity’s posterior). Stiles fought with the voice that told him to just stay home. He wasn’t proud to say the voice won a lot of days. _No, I’m going._ He might’ve been depressed but that didn’t mean he wanted his grades to suffer. Grades were basically everything to him, the one thing he could actually succeed in. And wow, that is just as bad as it sounds. Welcome to the American Educational system. He swallowed another Adderall, knowing he needed the extra boost. 

He took a shower, scrubbing compulsively at his skin. He really liked showers. They were the answer to so many problems. Dirty? Take a shower. Need an escape? Shower. He turned off the steady stream of hot water about twenty minutes later (based on the songs from his iPod, because he was an expert on judging time by number of tracks played). He braced himself for the cold to surely follow stepping out of the steamy goodness. The blue towel he used became damp as his body was dried off. His arm was on the verge of jumping up and wiping the condensation from the mirror of its own volition, anxious to critique his body.

It was the same thing every morning. A routine.

Stiles inhaled. Held it, wiping the steam from the glass. He released the breath. His brown hair, almost black when wet, stuck up in different directions over his forehead. The pale skin of his face made him look almost white in the bright lighting of the bathroom. The only color was the dusting of moles on his cheeks and the darkness under his eyes. Stiles looked down at his stomach and pinched the skin. _Too much_. He stepped on a plastic scale in front of the mirror. Anxious for the numbers that would determine how good/bad his day was going to be. He inhaled. Exhaled. The numbers appeared. A frown formed. 110 lbs. He had gained two pounds. The black numbers stared up at him. Mocking him with what they displayed. He stepped off the scale, fighting the temptation to throw it against the wall. 

Stiles threw on a black t-shirt with a _Captain America_ shield in the center and put a hoodie over it, accompanied by his favorite pair of skinny jeans. He stared at himself in the full length mirror for the second time that morning. 

By seven thirty, the Adderall he took wasn’t enough to make him feel like less of a zombie so he popped two diet pills. The bottle said take with food and a glass of water. He could manage the water. 

 ~ ~ ~

First hour. Biology. With Jackson, unfortunately. Nostradamus predicted there would be three anti-Christs. The first was thought to be Adolf Hitler and the second, Napoleon Bonaparte. Stiles had found the third; Jackson whatever his last name was, he could never remember. It wasn’t even an exaggeration, the guy was that bad.  

“Hey, Stilinski, you don’t look so good,” he said with the usual smug edge in his voice. Some people can be insulting you and the way they say it would make you think it was a compliment. Jackson was the opposite. A praise from him (which almost never happened) sounded like a curse. 

Stiles didn’t reply. His head was pounding and he wasn’t rising to the bait. Jackson dropped it when his attempt went unanswered. Or, Stiles had assumed (how silly of him). In the middle of class, while Mr. Harr-ass was trying to explain the concept of mitosis to a classroom of uninterested teenagers, a wad of paper hit the back of his head. The teen leaned down in his seat and picked up the scrap. He tried not to throw it back when he saw the contents. It was a crudely drawn picture of him (there was an arrow pointing at the person that said ‘you’) on his knees, sucking off a stick figure guy. One thing was for sure, Jackson wouldn’t win any art shows. In messy script at the bottom it said, ‘Another late night?’ Stiles snuck a look behind him and Jackson’s hand covered his mouth, trying to disguise laughter as a series of fake yawns. Stiles ignored all the paper that came flying at him throughout the rest of the class. 

 ~ ~ ~

Lunch time arrived. Too soon for Stiles’ liking. Here it comes. He’s on the shore, water lapping at his toes. He can’t back up. The water grows confident and overtakes his feet. He sees Erica and runs to join her. The water recedes, defeated for the moment. 

“Hey, Catwoman,” he says, taking a maroon tray and a set of white eating utensils (maroon and white were the school’s colors. Why did BHHS feel the need to shove school spirit in everyone’s face all the time?). 

“Hey, Batman. What brings you to the Beacon Hills High School lunch room?” 

The only thing that looked mildly appealing were sliced apples or bananas with too many brown spots. A banana had one hundred five calories. He chose the apples. “Oh you know, just getting some gourmet cuisine.” 

She threw her head back in a laugh. “I don’t even know if this food qualifies as ‘edible’,” she said, looking at something suspiciously resembling fried rat. The label in front of it read ‘Teriyaki Chicken on a Stick’. He laughed and grabbed a bottle of lemon flavored water. He hated lemons. They made it to the front of the line, making idle chit-chat that neither would remember by the end of the day. Stiles and Erica were the first ones at their regular table. Boyd was soon to join them. 

“How’s it going, babe?” He kissed Erica’s cheek as he put his tray down. A glance and a nod was all Stiles got as a ‘hello’ before he turned his attention back to his girlfriend. She picked up a French fry from her tray and turned it over, examining it. 

“Well, actually pretty good. Me and Batman here have just been talking about the differences between The Walking Dead comic book and the TV show. Personally, I think the TV show is better. Norman Reedus is a god.” 

Boyd laughed. “Wow, you make me feel so special,” and then she laughed and then they were kissing and by that point, Stiles just looked down at his tray. He picked up a slightly brown apple slice and put it in his mouth. He chewed. Three. Four times. There was no taste. The school had a huge sports department to fund. Which meant they had to save money somewhere. So no fresh apples, just the ones that came in a plastic bag, pre-cut. 

Scott and Allison came next. The beautiful girl shining on his arm like a jewel. 

“Hey, man,” Scott greeted. 

He ignored the couple making very obscene sounds. For the last two years, it was a daily occurrence. Well, maybe it was earlier than that. Maybe ever since eighth grade when they first started dating. Boyd had hacked the computer she used during her emerging technologies class. The next time she logged in, a white-on-black text box popped up, bearing the Japanese words ‘Koi no yokan’. At the time, thirteen year old Erica was in her Otaku phase and she thought, ‘This is it; this is the boy for me’. And things were decided. They would be together. The IT guy managed to trace the IP address back to Boyd’s house. His computer privileges were revoked permanently and he narrowly avoided police involvement due to the temper tantrum of the century. The middle schooler told everyone it was worth it when he came back from suspension a week later. And apparently, it was. What it would be like to have that level of love for someone? His eyes drifted to the young couple.

Boyd’s hand was wound tight in her long, blonde hair. Ouch, how could that be a turn on? He didn’t understand it. Erica didn’t seem to notice the hand tugging at her curls or maybe she did, but just didn’t care. 

“Are you ready for PE? I heard Coach was going to make us do suicides today,” Stiles commented. 

“Forget about PE, what about lacrosse practice? If his class during the day is hard, you know it’ll be even worse after school,” Scott replied between bites of corn dog. The only reason why he joined in the first place was because Scott had said it would make them cool. And it did. Well, at least it made Scott cool. His fingers interlocked Allison’s but she wasn’t paying attention. The phone in her hand was the main object of focus. She didn’t notice the way Scott unconsciously stroked her hand with the side of his thumb. Doesn’t notice or doesn’t care? 

Stiles would have liked Allison a lot more if she wasn’t such an invasion on what little time he had to spend with his best friend. He liked playing CoD with Scott. Or doing the Mentos with Coke thing because that never got old, but ever since they started dating, she was always off with him doing…well, he really didn’t know what they did together. It probably involved lots of intense eye-gazing and making out. When Scott loved something, he loved it so completely everything else was blocked out. Stiles had seen it before with Scott’s first cat, Mr. Meow (the awesome name-picking skills of a first grader). The six year old would pretend to be sick so he could stay home from school and play with his feline friend. His mom caught on after the third ‘my tummy hurts, let me stay home’ day in a two week span. Over the course of a month, Scott gradually stopped caring for him. A month after that, forgot it existed entirely. Mr. Meow was run over a year later by his neighbor’s SUV. Scott didn’t cry, even when his mother picked up the broken body and put it in a black trash bag to be buried. Allison was like Scott’s cat. He would love her entirely for a while and eventually, forget about her. She wouldn’t get hit by a car or anything, he hoped, but Scott would stop loving her. It was inevitable.   

The rest of lunch block was a blur of meaningless conversation and the repeated  ‘I don’t want to be here’, playing like a broken record in his head. Thankfully, Jackson and Lydia went off campus so he didn’t have to deal with that train wreck. _Probably to have sex at her place_ , his mind supplied. _Thank you_ , inner voice. _I really needed that mental image_. He left the table early, saying his respective goodbyes. Remarkably, Erica stopped sucking face long enough to wave. He dumped the rest of his apple slices in the trash on the way out of the cafeteria and downed what remained of the lemon water.  

Stiles headed to the bathrooms in the east part of the building where no one would disturb him (the bathrooms were in the music department and practically no one cared about band or choir so that wing was usually deserted). Latching the lock behind him, he crouched on his knees in front of the toilet. He jammed two fingers down his throat. The measly apple he had consumed came back up, along with the lemon water. 

 ~ ~ ~ 

Stiles did surprisingly well up until the last hour of the day. He would prefer another Biology with a thousand Jacksons than go to PE. He was running on empty and his head still hurt. The pressure exerted on his face while he was purging caused the blood vessels under his eyes to pop, leaving tiny red dots. He took two caffeine pills out of his backpack and drank from a water fountain that tasted like rusty pipes. _The school should really invest in plastic piping_ , his taste buds screamed to him. The flavor of oxidized metal clung to the inside of his mouth. _But compared to that lemon water, I prefer this_. He headed back to the bathrooms in the music department. He glanced at his reflection in the mirror above the cracked sink and he looked the opposite of healthy. Like, healthy to the negative power. It was going to be a long night of dodging his father.

Within the first ten minutes of last period beginning, he received a text from Scott. 

          Dude where r u? Coach is pissed 

Well, he couldn’t exactly say what he was really doing (sitting in a stall, head resting against the 100% unsanitary wall). His head hurt.

           I think I’m sick. 

His phone vibrated again. The response was much quicker than it should have been, 

           He just said whoever has ur number to text u and say ur the only one who has practice today if u dont come right now 

Just as Scott texted that, he received messages from Jackson (eww, why did he even have his number?) and Boyd. All texts had a similar message. He was about to thumb out a response but his stomach did a brutal flip. He crouched over the toilet and threw up whatever was left in his body. Then everything was gone and he was dry heaving. Tears streamed down his face. He wiped his eyes and mouth with a tissue. He discarded it and pretended not to see the specks of red in the bowl as he flushed.

His phone vibrated from where he’d dropped it on the floor. The zzzz-zzzzz echoed in the empty bathroom. He picked up the device. Scott’s name was displayed across the screen, along with a picture of him from the ninth grade Stiles deemed too good to delete. He accepted the call. 

“Listen, Scott- I’m really not feeling good. I think I might go home-” 

“This isn’t Scott.” Yes. That was certainly not Scott’s voice. 

In the background, he could hear his friend yell, “Sorry, Stiles.” 

“So Stilinski, I’ll be seeing you after school.” 

He rested his forehead against the porcelain. Resigned to his fate. 

“Yes, Coach.”

 ~ ~ ~  
 

The lacrosse field was empty after school. Stiles stopped by the locker room before he came to put on his athletic wear; tight, long sleeved Under Armour going beneath his lacrosse uniform. Scott texted him seconds after the phone call and said the Coach had just taken his phone. Boyd and Erica sent their sympathies. He was not looking forward to the next hour. 

“So I see you like ditching my class,” Coach Derek said, joining him on the field while Stiles sat on a bench, tightening the strings of his crosse. Why were gym teachers always holding clipboards? What did they have to write down every single class? Surely not anything of enough importance to warrant carrying around a piece of wood for seven hours.

It was considered a universal truth that perfection was impossible. Stiles had found the exception to that rule in the form of his coach. His jaw and perpetual stubble drove Stiles crazy. The urge to run his hands through the man’s permanent sex hair almost won out some days. And wow. He sounded like a twelve year old crushing on an older man (which wasn't that far from the truth). It was hard to hate someone that beautiful, even if they were an unfair prick. 

“I tried to tell Scott I’m really not feeling well.” 

The Coach cocked his head to the right. Mock sympathy. “Well, maybe running will make you feel better.” 

The first lap sucked. It was puffing. Wheezing. A burning in his lungs. The pressure in his head was stronger. It hurt. Coach Derek stood at the finish line with that infernal device he called a stop watch. 

“Five minutes and forty one seconds. Come on, Stilinski, I know kids that can run a full mile in that time.” Well, there was a reason why Stiles was on the bench the majority of the team's games. Physical exertion just wasn't his thing.

The second lap brought on coughing. He tasted metal. 

“Six minutes and thirty two seconds. You’re actually getting worse. Pick up the pace.” Maybe if the Coach stopped shouting he could concentrate on the not dying part of running. He knew it was good for him, but at what cost?

Stiles was halfway through the third lap when black flowers started blooming in front of his eyes. He didn’t remember falling. 

 ~ ~ ~  
 

He woke up in the nurse’s office. He knew that much from the gross fluorescent lighting and the posters on every flat surface with the same message (‘Keep those hands clean or you’ll get MRSA and die a slow and agonizing death’).

“Stiles?.” 

Stiles sat up at the voice, the pure authority making him forget his exhaustion. For the moment. 

“Easy,” Coach Derek said, putting the palms of his hands up. A pacifying gesture. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what happened,” Stiles apologized, rubbing his head. Coach Derek had his sunglasses off and dare he say, looked worried. Or constipated. That look could be interpreted two different ways. 

“Well, I do. You’re clearly exhausted, underweight, and I pushed you.” 

Stiles thought about the man’s words and smiled. Asked, “Coach, is that an apology?” 

The older male looked away. “...No, I just have to assess the situation better next time.” 

Stiles nodded. Once. Twice. And continued while looking around the room. “So yeah. Um, how did I get here?” 

He raised an eyebrow. “After you fainted-” 

“Don’t say ‘fainted’; that makes me sound like a damsel that passed out after seeing a dragon or something.” 

“-after you lost consciousness, I carried you here. The nurse went home already.” 

Stiles’ face grew red. Oh God, his hot coach, that was also an asshole, carried him. Bring on the cyanide suppository. Satan’s massive cock just opened up a hole in the Earth and was fucking him- 

The Coach smiled, sensing his discomfort. “It’s nothing to be embarrassed about, but of course you wouldn’t want your friends to know…” 

“You wouldn’t.” 

The older male just shrugged, face growing somber. “Relax, I’m kidding. I was just waiting for you to wake up.” Stiles tried not to think about Derek watching him while he was asleep. And failed miserably. “You need to go home and eat something and then sleep.” 

Stiles nodded and then tried to stand up. He decided that wasn’t a good idea though, when the room tilted. Coach Derek jumped out of his seat to assist him. 

“I need to get my stuff from the locker room,” Stiles said, trying his best not to focus on the hand holding his arm. But it was there. A huge and warm (he could feel the heat of it through his Under Armour) reminder that the Coach was just trying to help. They walked through the halls and into the locker room. Coach Derek left him standing, well, leaning against the door while he retrieved his bag. Stiles thanked him and apologized again. The older male just kept giving him a funny look. 

“Do you have a ride?” he said as they approached the entrance of the school. 

“I have a jeep.” 

“That’s not what I meant. You don’t need to be driving right now. Can one of your parents or friends come?” 

Well, his dad was at the station. His mom was six feet under. Scott was probably making out with Allison and didn’t have a car anyway. And none of his other friends had vehicles or licenses, except Jackson. Which totally wasn’t happening. He would rather off himself right there, in front of the Coach, than have to ask that dickmilk for a favor. So, no. He didn’t have a ride. 

“I’ll be fine; my house isn’t that far from here.” 

Coach Derek paused for a second, seemingly deep in thought. “I can drive you home,” he said finally. The teen’s face went red once again. 

“Ok,” was all he could say around the lump in his throat. 

The Coach left him on a bench by the front door while he collected his things. He was about to get a ride. From his crush. Honestly, he should have been happier about the situation but somehow him passing out and getting carried to the nurse’s office wasn’t how he pictured them bonding. In his mind, it went something like, “Oh, my mom is dead.” And then the Coach would say something really vague like, “My whole family was killed in a fire.” And then they could bond over the pain of losing loved ones and that… was kind of pathetic. But this was his day dream and that meant it could be whatever he wanted it to be. He fought the urge to sign. Why did Coach have to be his type? Attractive, brusque, hiding deep personal issues...

 Footsteps approached and turned to see the man, brown messenger bag thrown over one shoulder. 

“Are you ready?” 

“Yeah.” He stood. 

“Do you need any help?” He asked hurriedly.

“Nah, I’m not as dizzy as before.” 

The older male looked at him for a second. “Good.” 

They walked to the only vehicle in the parking lot. A black Camaro (how someone with a teacher’s salary could afford a muscle car was a mystery to him). 

“A Camaro? Are you compensating for something?” Stiles said from over the top of the car. He didn't know if he should have though, after it came out. His dad was always saying his mouth was going to get him in trouble and the Coach and him weren't on the friendliest of terms. The man stood with the keys in his hand. He laughed. A short breath out, head going slightly back. Unexpected. Very welcome, but still unexpected.  _So he is capable of laughing. Not his usual sarcastic smirk or chuckle, a genuine laugh. Nice_. They climbed in.

The drive was quiet. But surprisingly not uncomfortable. The older male turned on an indie radio station he didn’t recognize (it made him happy, knowing the Coach liked alternative music. He imagined him sitting somewhere, listening to The Arctic Monkeys or something like that, gently tapping his fingers to the beat. _OK, stop being weird_ ). They arrived at his house fifteen minutes later. Conversation going as far as ‘which way do I turn?’

“Thanks, Coach.” 

“No problem, and you can call me Derek.” 

“OK... then thanks Derek.” He climbed out of the car and looked back at the older male. Sensing he wanted to say something. Two seconds. Three seconds. He should really go but god; the man’s eyes were galaxies of green. Could he get lost in them?

“Wait, Stiles. If…you ever need help or anything. Or just someone to talk to, I’m here.” 

Stiles nodded. He had trouble wording his reply. “Yeah, I’ll remember that. Bye.” 

He walked inside, hiding behind the safety of his door. That was…interesting. He slid off his worn out Converse by the door and walked into the living room. There was a message on the answering machine (that’s right, in 2012, his dad insisted on keeping the answering machine). He pressed the button under the flashing red light, shrugging off his backpack. The same thing he did after school. Every day. 

“Hey, it’s your dad. I’m going to be late tonight. Okay, well, I love you and I’ll see you at eight or nine.” Good. He needed some alone time. Not that he didn’t love his dad, because he did. It’s just, his father really worried about him. He hated it when people worried about him. _Because you aren’t worth it._

Stiles lazily walked up the stairs and into his room, graced with the ability to stomp without the worry his dad would wake up. He removed his lacrosse clothes and put on dark grey sweat pants and a long sleeve shirt. He knelt on too boney knees by the side of his bed and grabbed his ‘Box o’ Treasures’. Yes, he was a cliché teenager that hid bad stuff under his bed. He still had some Hydros (praise Allah for Erica and her crazy, partying ways) stored in a plastic baggie next to a pack of cigarettes he was saving for some reason. Stiles grabbed one of the white and red speckled pills. Another joined it after two seconds of debate.

He headed downstairs to the living room. He sat crisscross on the ground and put the pills on the glass coffee table. Stiles vaguely contemplated doing what the Coach (Derek, he corrected) had told him. He was fine though. _If you’re so fine, why are you about to snort Hydrocodone?_ Asked a voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like the man. Great. Now he was hearing other people’s voices. His own were hard enough to deal with.

Well, screw what the Derek in his head thought.

The bottom of a cup crushed one of the pills and he snorted one line with a rolled dollar bill. It burned. He snorted another. Three. Four. Five. He swallowed the other tablet with a glass of orange juice. He was too lazy to put the rolled bill back under his bed so he threw it in his backpack. He sat down on the couch. And waited. 

~ ~ ~

Stiles woke up to someone shaking him. He opened his eyes, flinching at the force. His sleep addled brain confusing his father for an intruder. Seeing his son flinch, John Stilinski removed his hands and took a step back. The sheriff waited for Stiles to come back to consciousness. His vision focused, realizing it wasn’t Jackson or some wolf trying to rip his head off. He visibly relaxed. OK, this whole thing with 'waking up and being scared by someone', had seriously got to stop. 

“Hey, dad,” he said, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He blinked. 

John smiled. “Hey, kid.” He sat down next to his son. His dad’s uniform and shoes were still on. He must’ve just gotten home. 

Stiles yawned. “How was work?” 

John shrugged. “You know, never a dull moment. I swear, for a town this small, the crime rate is crazy. I’m telling you, something’s in the water.” He paused staring at his son, words forming on his tongue. “Anyways, we need to talk.” 

Stiles nodded, urging his dad forward. He was scared. No one wanted to have a conversation that began with ‘we need to talk’. He thought of every bad thing he had done in the last two months and even remembered the pack of gum he had stolen from a girl named Mary (or Matilda, he couldn’t remember now) when he was eight. Was that what this was about? Was there some secret branch of law enforcement that dealt with gum theft? Were the Gum Police after him? 

“Stiles, I want to know what’s wrong with you lately. You haven’t had panic attacks and nightmares this bad since your mom died. I have eyes so, yeah; I've noticed the huge amount of weight you’ve lost recently. You’ve been lying to me. I know you’ve been lying, I’m a cop for Pete’s sake, and I can tell when I’m being lied to.” Stiles had nothing to say. No witty come back or expertly crafted lie. Because apparently, he wasn’t sneaky enough. The teen’s tongue darted out to wet his suddenly dry lips. 

“Dad…I don’t know what to say. I’m, well, I’m just going through some stuff right now.” Eloquent.

Sheriff Stilinski rubbed a hand over his face. He needed a drink. 

“Stiles, you’re a teenager so I know trying to force information out of you won’t work. Just know that I love you and when you’re ready to talk, I’m here for you. OK?” Wordlessly, Stiles hugged his father. 

“I’m sorry, dad.” For being such a disappointment. For letting you down. For lying to you. John let go. He stood up. 

“Good, now that’s over with, get your butt to bed. I know it’s only Monday, but I’m letting you have a free day tomorrow. Use it to sleep and eat a bunch of crap. Lord knows you need it.” His dad patted him on the shoulder. Then, smiled so warmly that the corners of his eyes crinkled. Stiles moved to go upstairs.  

The clock on his night stand read eleven forty five. His father had been late. 


	2. One may smile, and smile, and be a villain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles ditches class.  
> Maybe the sheriff could've handled it better...?
> 
> Derek talks to Stiles (and gives the teen his number).  
> Maybe a relationship is on the horizon...?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. How are you guys doing? Awesome? Well, good.

The night brought on phantasms from the past that left him shivering into the early hours of the morning. Stiles didn’t alert his father. He could handle it on his own. His phone read eight thirty seven. One new message from Scott.

               So did the devil kill u? Is that y ur not at skewl? 

Stiles huffed as he typed his response. Only if Scott knew about Derek…             

               Nah, man. He was pretty cool about it. 

The second message took longer to get. Now that Scott had confirmation he wasn’t dead, he wasn’t interested in texting him anymore. 

                WoW, thats shocking 

Stiles didn’t reply. He stayed in bed for another hour (someday the bumps would all be counted. Four hundred sixteen. Four hundred seventeen) and got up when his stomach rumbled. He decided that one bowl of cereal wouldn’t kill him ( _Or maybe it will,_ said the voice in his head that he’d dubbed ‘Probably Shouldn’t Listen To Most Of The Time But Do Anyway’). 

He plopped onto the couch with the remote and a bowl of Cheerios (to be more accurate, Wheat Os, because his dad never bought name brand cereal. ‘It’s pointless; this stuff tastes exactly the same’. It, in fact, did not taste the same). Unfortunately, Tuesday mornings were not known for their great quality of TV programs so he had the option of soul sucking game show #17 or a cooking show with an annoyingly cheerful host. He chose the obnoxious woman who put to much emphasis on the letter ’s’.

An hour and one lasagna later, the lady was getting bothersome so he switched off the television and got up to dump out the mostly full bowl of cereal.  

 

He was getting antsy around eleven thirty. Nothing could hold his interest for long. He took an Adderall and felt a bit better after an hour but it wasn’t a huge improvement.

His skin started to itch. It itched for his blade. And he wanted the relief that came from scratching that itch. PSLTMOTTBDA was full on shouting for him to do it. See how amazing it would make him feel.

This time he skipped the beach entirely and was walking down the road. The rain came. And kept coming. There was nowhere to take shelter. He turned and ran. His back was hit with the pure force of the water. He tried to yell to the guy in front of him (who had the same brown and slightly wavy hair that Scott possessed) but he disappeared. And once again, Stiles was alone in the flood. 

The whole ‘sit around and wait for the flood to finally drown him’ thing wasn’t working so he decided to take a shower. Stiles took his clothes off and turned on the faucet, letting the water warm up.

He looked at the cuts on his arm.

The pad of his finger ran over a particularly deep wound. Then found another that had a similar appearance. He counted. Twenty eight on the right. Thirty five on the left. He was trying to destroy his body and in return, his body was straining itself to heal the damage he caused. Probably a metaphor in there somewhere.

 He took a seat on the tiled floor and let the water wash over him. Tyler Joseph belted out _Kitchen Sink_ from his I-Pod. Stiles was lost in the feeling of the hot water on his skin and the song echoing in his head. 

   
 

At three, his dad was supposed to be home. Stiles was sitting in the living room, English book open on his lap. Most of his teachers were good about posting the day’s assignments online. ‘Most’ being the key word ( _stupid Mr. Harris and his stupid biology class)._ At three thirty, the home phone rang. Lacking the desire to talk, he let the machine pick it up.  

“Hey son, it’s your dad.” The commotion of the station could be heard. Another phone rang in the background; the ring was the sound one associated with an office. A rapid succession of beeps. Something obnoxious enough to penetrate the other noises (‘ _not a good enough reason to use the word penetrate’)_. 

“I really hope the reason you’re not answering is because you’re still asleep. I know I was supposed to be home by now but I’m working a double tonight so you’ll see me at six or seven in the morning. I’m really sorry. I wanted to try and spend some time with you but it looks like that won’t happen tonight. Anyway, I love you and I’ll see you tomorrow.” Stiles deleted the message. 

   
 ~ ~ ~

At school the next day, he forced a smile in the bathroom’s mirror. Some days were easier to pretend than others. Today was definitely one of the ‘others’. He had to lie to his dad that morning because he’d asked for a ride. His dad asked where his jeep was. “I decided to walk home the other day.” And with that complete load of bullshit that he had just thrust upon his father, the man agreed. He felt like absolute crap. Physically or mentally, he wasn’t sure. _Both, definitely both._   

“I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine.”  Maybe if he said it enough, it would become true. Like a self-fulfilling prophecy. 

 

First hour was pretty peaceful, mainly because there was a distinct lack of ‘Bully with Serious Anger Management Problems’ trying to harass him whenever the teacher’s back was turned. Then again, Mr. Harris wasn’t exactly pleasant himself. Catch 22 seemed like a fitting description for his life nowadays. Stiles managed to get through class without getting a detention. He was counting that as a win.

 

Second hour was Economics, taught by Derek. A blessing or a curse, he still wasn’t sure. Maybe now that they had that little bonding-ish moment yesterday, he wouldn’t be his regular freight train of dickheadedness? He could always hope.

He entered the room and his eyes fell on Lydia, sitting at their usual table. It took nine seconds to reach her. He took off his backpack and sat it down on the black table top. 

“Hey, Livs,” Stiles greeted.

 She looked up from her phone. “Hey, yourself.” Her nose scrunched. “You look like shit.” 

Ah, yes. He loved his aesthetic criticisms to come devoid of sugar. No coating here. Not with Lydia. “Thank you for that self confidence booster, I really needed it.” 

The girl shrugged and tossed her strawberry locks over one shoulder. “Are you still purging?” She said with such simplicity as one would say, “Pass the salt.” 

“Dude-,” she gave him ‘the look’. Right, she did not like the ‘bro’ terms. He backtracked.  “Lydia, there’s no ‘still purging’. I never started,” he lied.  

“Hm. Really?” She had the most powerful BS detector that he had ever seen in a person. 

He turned away from her, using the logic of babies who hadn’t grasped the concept of object permanence. ‘If I can’t see them, they can’t see me’. 

“Yes, really.” Without even looking at her face, he could tell she wasn’t done with the conversation. Several students walked in. She held her tongue. 

Class began like usual. Derek didn’t acknowledge him. He was fine with that. A lot of teachers did the same thing. They say, ‘I’m here if you need to talk’, and that was it. That was as far as their ‘help’ went. He shouldn’t have been surprised but knowing and doing are two separate things. At least he hadn’t call on him for answers. Having to talk in front of a whole class would be enough for the flood to come right into the room, take him, and dump him someplace where there was no Lydia to call him out. Or Derek to ignore him. 

He spent the hour drawing on the desk. He didn’t know what material the black table top was but he thought the graphite from his pencil looked cool on it. Derek talked about the stock market. He was quickly tuned out. Half of a weenie dog looked up at him from the table. Stiles smiled and drew another ear. 

The end of class came forty five minutes later. His friend just rose her eyebrows at the dachshund riding a skateboard with the words ‘too cool for school’ above its head. Stiles responded to her disdain with a self deprecating smile. He walked past Derek’s desk with Lydia at his side and the man told him to sit back down. She briefly gave him a sympathetic look before walking ahead of him and leaving through the open door. Traitor.  

The room cleared out and that was when Derek made his way to Stiles. He leaned against the table by the one the teen occupied. He stuck a pencil behind his ear. Stiles’ eyes followed the movement. How would it feel to be that piece of wood? To be that close to perfection? _Wow. Jealous of a pencil? You have stooped to a whole new level of pathetic._  

“Stiles, before I start, I want you to know you’re not in trouble. No one is mad at you.” 

He swallowed hard. This talk was going to be about as much fun as a lobotomy. 

Derek continued when Stiles nodded. “OK, your grades are really good. That’s not the problem here. You have a lot of absences. Basically all unexcused. And when you’re here, some teachers notice you’re withdrawn. And other students have gone to the counselor to-” 

“Was it Erica?” Derek paused, mouth open. Stiles let out a clipped laugh and leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. Cupidbow lips pursed. “I freaking knew it.” 

“-I can’t tell you who it was but they did it because they’re worried. They just want to help.” 

“And what if I don’t want help?” He said, trying to be difficult. He was scared. 

Derek sighed. “Listen, I’m not trying to back you into a corner or anything.” _Well, sir, you have failed at that._ “I’m honestly concerned. The counselor wants to talk to you and she’ll decide if she needs to involve your dad after.” 

“Please, don’t do that. I would literally prefer anything else.” His pulse accelerated. Water started seeping in through the tiles on the floor, surrounding his Converse. It rained from the ceiling. A torrential down pour. The water came up to his knees. Derek didn’t notice. 

The older male smiled. “Of course you would, what teen wants to be narked on to their parents? That would just be cruel.” 

“Please-…wait, so you’re not calling him??” 

“Well, no. As long as you promise to talk to someone. And I understand if you don’t want it to be the counselor, if you ask me, she’s kind of weird… Don’t tell her I said that.” Stiles’ mouth twitched upward in a smile. Teachers throwing shade at other teachers. Fascinating.

“Do you have anything to write on? I want to give you something.” After a bit of fumbling, Stiles managed to give him a ripped piece of notebook paper. Derek grabbed the pencil resting behind his ear. He scribbled something down and handed it back to Stiles. 

“That’s my personal phone number. Please don’t give it to any of your little friends, especially Jackson, because I really don’t need a prank call at three in the morning. It’s usually on silent during the day but I always have it with me. And you don’t have to talk to me. It’s just an option.” 

Stiles shoved the scrap of paper into his pocket. “Thanks, Derek. I’ll- I will definitely consider it.” 

Someone Stiles vaguely remembered as Simon walked through the door. He glanced between Derek and Stiles for a moment followed by that deer-in-headlights look. Probably thinking, ‘Oh God, what did I just walk in on?’ The Simon person turned and casually strolled out of the room. They stared at each other for a moment longer. _Two seconds,_ Stiles counted. Derek patted him on the shoulder and walked back to his desk. 

Stiles kept his head down as he stepped past Simon in the hallway, who was on his phone. Pretending to be texting. Or maybe he really was. Maybe saying to a friend ‘guess who I just walked in on?’ spreading rumors right there. When he was a safe distance from Derek’s classroom, he checked his phone. A new message from Lydia. 

         Hey, what did the coach want? 

He had to think of a response. He wasn’t sure if she knew about his crush or not. Just in case she didn’t, he tried to keep his response brief, lest he tip her off.  _Why do women have a sixth sense on this type of thing? It isn’t even the sixth one, though. There’re more than just the basic five senses. Nociception is another one. It’s pain. And cutaneous is pain in the skin, Somatic is bones, and Visceral is- I guess some days are easier to remember the Adderall than others._  

        Not much. Just wanted to see if I was going to practice today since I was out sick yesterday. 

The reply took a minute. By the time it came, he was already seated in Calculus. The guy next to him, Greenberg? (he really didn't have any special talent with names) hadn’t done the homework. He asked to copy Stiles’. He agreed, only because Greenberg was really big and liked to take people out by flying tackle in lacrosse practice. 

            Oh ok, just checking   
   
~ ~ ~

  
He went home several hours later. It was ten minutes before lunch and he just said ‘fuck it’, and left. Apparently, Derek was serious about talking to all of his teachers. They kept giving him pity stares and when he had handed in his writing assignments from yesterday, his English teacher had just looked him in the eyes. One hand hovering over her heart and the other covering his own that still held the stack of papers. She’d said, “Bless your heart, you poor thing,” after he apologized for missing class. 

He hated pity. He'd gotten enough when he was ten and the doctors said his mom went to sleep and would never wake up again. Ignoring the fact he knew she hadn’t gone to ’sleep’. They’d restrained her after she attacked his dad and tried to strangle him, nearly succeeding. The doctors gave her medicine and Stiles’ last moments with his mom had been silent. Peaceful, even. It’d been such a contrast to how he was used to seeing her. The pity had been shoved in his face for a year before people finally stopped talking about ‘the poor Stilinski boy’ (that year was filled with many loafs-of-food, given to them by concerned neighbors, all of which had gone uneaten. He'd lost his appetite). 

Stiles didn’t bother calling his dad to check him out and he wasn’t old enough to do it himself so he just walked out one of the side doors by the lockers. The school had the option of a brand new spirit bus or a full system of security cameras the year before. And boy was that spirit bus something. There was a single camera on the outside of the building, pointed at the entrance. When he was an office aid during sophomore year, he had been to the RO’s room and laid his eyes upon the absolute fail that was security system. He had never been gladder that the school had opted for that tacky-ass bus.  

He dodged a teacher he didn’t recognize and climbed into his Jeep. Stiles was half way home before he realized leaving hadn’t been the best idea. His dad was still at the house. If he went now, he would be busted. _You probably are already busted. They do take attendance when everyone comes back to class, you know._ Oh Buddha, he had made a big mistake. The waves completely skipped the precursory touches and full on groped at his legs. He was almost knocked over by the sheer force. Eager to embrace him again like an old lover, rejected long ago but still deeply enchanted.  

Stiles texted Scott to distract from the water rising above his neck. 

          Dude, come ditch with me. 

          Ummm, I dont think so I have a test next hour and I dont want my ass chewed out 

          Ugh, fine. You’re letting a brother down.

           Lol ok, have fun hope u dont get caught 

 

Stiles drove around aimlessly. Ten minutes passed. He found himself down the same roads he’d been traveling his whole life. He parked his Jeep after driving to the edge of town. He was surrounded by dense forest; another half mile was the wild life reserve. There weren’t any houses close by, which was smart on the contractor’s part. Who wanted to find a bear or wolf chilling out in their backyard? Answer: no one. 

Stiles rested his head against the steering wheel. He was really hungry. Without looking up, he stretched his arm out and felt around blindly for his backpack. His fingertips brushed the coarse fabric and he dragged it over. He dry swallowed a diet pill. And another, after a moment’s consideration. Stiles leaned back.

 

~ ~ ~

 

There was an intense vibrating against his thigh. It was a text. He didn’t recognize the number. 

          You must really have an aversion to my class. 

He lifted his butt off the seat to grab the crumpled piece of paper from his back pocket. The small and tidy numbers matched the ones on the screen. 

           I’m sorry, Derek. OK, not really. But seriously, I don’t feel well, so I think that’s a good enough excuse not to come to class. 

He wondered how Derek got his number. Probably from Scott. Or Jackson, if he was back at school from wherever he had been. _Perhaps at a children’s nursery, torturing the future generation? Or whatever Jackson does when he’s not at school._  

           Wow, not even pretending that you feel bad about missing class three days in a row. Pretty irresponsible. 

Texting Derek was surprisingly easy. Not formal or awkward. Or the usual things associated with texting a teacher. He was glad the older male’s texting style wasn’t like Scott’s. Nothing made him want to flip a desk more than seeing someone write ‘u’ instead of ‘you’. 

            Don’t you have a class to teach? And you say I’m irresponsible. Texting on the job?  Very unprofessional. 

There was an intense cramping in Stiles’ stomach. He shoved it into a box labeled ‘deal with later’. Upon further examination, the box was almost at maximum capacity. He’d have to sort through it before it exploded into a mental breakdown or something. Looks like he’d be adding ‘deal with the ‘deal with later’ box’ to the ‘deal with later’ box.  

It was two thirty one. _Might as well start driving home_. His phone went off again. 

I’m giving the kids who actually came to class today some free time. And texting on the job is plenty professional, as long as you don’t get caught. 

Stiles bit his lip. Smiling as he responded. 

          Is it just because I’m gone? You’re never that nice when I’m there. 

Was it weird for a student and teacher to be texting like this? And was it weird for said student to be on a first name basis with said teacher? This was probably very inappropriate but Stiles didn’t give two shites. He had a huge crush on the man. And he wasn’t that much older. Twenty six maybe? Stiles sighed. False hope was a true killer among men. _That’s right. He’s never going to love you. No one will._  

 _Thank you,_ Probably Shouldn’t Listen To Most Of The Time But Do Anyway. _You’re making me feel so good about myself today._

            Maybe if you came to class and practice regularly, you would see how nice I can be. Especially to the students I actually like 

Was that sexual? Stiles was interpreting it as sexual. Why? Because he was a hormonal teenage boy that just wanted his crush to like him back, even if it meant applying meaning to where there was none. That’s why. 

           :p Whatever, I do what I want. 

After a moment:

           Well, are you feeling any better?

 As he was typing out a response, that, yes, he was feeling better, Stiles slammed on the brakes. He opened the door and barely made it out of the vehicle before he was heaving onto the dead grass by the road. Blood and bile. Just lovely. 

“Mother Hubbard.” He ran a shaky hand through his hair. A deep breath in. Another one out. He wiped his mouth with the sleeve of the shirt he was wearing. He got up from his crouching position and made it home through blurry eyes. 

 

Stiles stumbled through the door to his house. He felt his phone go off again but he didn’t have the mental capacity to write out a text. He needed food. Eating disorder be damned, he was going to eat something.

He walked into the kitchen and opened up a cabinet, physically jumping when someone cleared their throat. He turned to see his dad sitting at the bar.

A glass of dark brown liquid sat next to his hand.

His father smiled at him. It didn’t reach his eyes. _It’s called a Duchenne smile when you use your mouth and eyes._ This was clearly not that type of smile. This one screamed ‘imminent killing spree’. 

“Hey buddy, have something you want to tell me?” 

Stiles cracked his knuckles. A nervous habit. He didn’t like it when his father drank. He tried to be nonchalant, turning back to examine the contents of the cabinet. He had his eye on a jar of crunchy peanut butter. Stiles didn’t like the crunchy kind but he could make it work. 

 “No, I don’t think so.” 

“Oh, really? What was that call I got from school saying you never came back from lunch?” 

He shrugged. He _really_ didn’t like it when his father drank. 

“Are you serious, Stiles? Give me some damn respect. If you’re going to lie, at least look at me.” 

He turned around, glancing at his father’s startling green eyes. One second. He looked away. His stare was accusing; it bore a hole into what the Egyptians called his ‘ka’. Stiles had long ago learned why his father was sheriff. It was this stare. This was the way he looked at criminals. Did they feel as small as he felt? 

“OK. Yes, dad. I did skip. I’m sorry.” 

His dad started to stand up, downing the glass as he did. There was a _klink_ as he set it down on the counter. That tiny sound of glass-hitting-stone hung in the air. The _klink_ was forgotten and replaced by clothes rustling as his father walked closer. Stiles could smell the alcohol. It filled his nose and he choked it down his throat. The odor pooled in his stomach.  

John stepped in front of his only son. A hand found its way to Stiles’ bony shoulder. He raised the corners of his lips and the skin around his eyes crinkled. _This_ was a Duchenne smile. 

“I just wish you were a better son.” 

His dad left him standing there. Retreating footsteps echoing in the otherwise soundless house. Stiles shut the cabinet door. Quest for food abandoned. The quiet enveloped his entire being. He felt the need to say out loud, “He didn’t mean it.” 

He refused to cry as he walked past his last remaining parent’s closed door. The door that was never closed. 

He told the silence, “He didn’t mean it,” again, just to prove it wrong. Stiles locked the door and pulled the phone out of his pocket. One new message from Derek. 

         ? Are you okay? 

Stiles hurriedly typed out a response before he succumbed to his exhaustion. 

        Yea, I’m fine now. 

And this time, when the flood came, he welcomed it with open arms. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love to hear what you're thinking about the story!


	3. Madness in great ones must not unwatched go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which punches are thrown, Derek is...surprisingly caring, and Stiles really just wants everything to be OK.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Is you OK? Is you good? 'Cuz I wanted to know."
> 
> (Today's beginning note is brought to you by Glozell)

His dad didn’t say goodbye before he left. Stiles was fine with that. He went through his morning routine, steadfastly not thinking about the previous night’s events. After showering, he stepped on the scale. Sure, he’d lost the two pounds. And another three. Down to 105 lbs, he was fragile looking. 

Stiles ate a whole package of Oreos on the couch after throwing on a hoodie. Four minutes later, the cookies were in the pipes. Being carried away to dump in the Pacific. He dry swallowed two Adderall, replacing the food his body had been robbed of. He left the house with twenty minutes until school started and zero motivation. The fifteen minute trip became seven and a half.  

   
 He had to stop by the locker room before first hour. Stiles belatedly realized his student ID had fallen out of his bag when Derek retrieved it days before. The ‘awesome’ picture of him didn’t need to be seen by anyone. He stood by the door and listened for anyone who might’ve been in there.

Six seconds passed with no noise.

Satisfied he was alone, Stiles crouched down to retrieve the card. While in the process of standing up, something powerful hit the back of his head. He fell forward and scarcely avoided busting out his front teeth on the side of the locker.

The teen righted himself and looked up at what had struck his head. Jackson stood over him. Hands curled into fists by his sides. The back of his skull was on fire.  

“You fucking snitch.”  

Stiles scooted sideways and hurriedly stood up. Jackson had the crazed look of a wild animal.  

“What?”  _Very articulate. Nice going, man._  

“Stop acting like you don’t know what I’m talking about. You’re a snitch, you told the counsellor ‘I’ve been harassing you’.”  

“Dude, seriously, I didn’t tell anyone.” And then it occurred to him: Derek. All the teachers had been talking with him and he had been communicating with the counsellor. Fuck.  

“They suspended me because of what you said. They have eye witness accounts and the ‘victims’ have stepped forward. I’m not even supposed to be here.” Jackson walked closer and in one fluid motion, punched Stiles across the jaw.  

“My parents are so pissed at me. Because of you.” He stumbled and Stiles’ back hit another set of lockers. Jackson grabbed a fist full of Stiles’ t-shirt and punched him again. He saw a flash of white and closed his eyes, weakly throwing up both arms to protect himself. They’d gone to the same preschool and Stiles could confidently say the guy had been a douche bag all of his life. During nap time, when the teacher wasn’t looking, he used to slap Stiles, causing him to cry out. He would then get in trouble for waking everyone up. Never once did the teacher ask why he would scream. It was always ‘go to the corner’. What a twat. _Jackson can hit a lot harder now._   

The fourth landed on his stomach. He braced himself for the fifth. It never came. His eyes were screwed shut. The taste of blood danced across his tongue. One hand was braced against the locker.   

“Stiles? Are you OK?” He opened his eyes slightly. Derek placed a hand on his shoulder. To steady him. Or maybe ground him. Try to get him back to the BHHS locker room. 

“Yeah, um, yeah. I just need to sit down for a sec.” He clumsily sat on the bench to the side of him.  

“Do I need to call the nurse?”  

“And get my ass kicked again for being a bitch about a few punches? No, thank you.” His head was almost between his knees, trying to will the nausea away. He couldn’t see Derek’s expression.  

“OK, then. We won’t do that. Why did he attack you?”  

“Besides the fact that he’s a dick on steroids, he said someone reported him for harassment and he thought it was me, which, it wasn’t.”  

“…I’m sorry. Administration talked to some of the kids he was doing it to and had teachers keep an eye on him. The counsellor reported him to the resource officer. He must’ve gotten it in his head that you were the one. I had no idea he would do this.”  

Stiles groaned. “Great.”  

“Where did he hit you?”  

Stiles said nothing. His head was still swimming and it took his complete concentration not to toss his cookies all over Derek’s red and grey running shoes.  

“Can you look at me, please?” 

Stiles reluctantly put his head up. Derek wore the same worried (or constipated) look he’d expressed days before. Gingerly, the older male grabbed Stiles’ chin and turned his head to see the angry looking bruise forming on his jaw. The teen’s heart beat sped up at the contact.  

“Anywhere else?”  

Stiles turned away from the hand holding his face. He could still feel the ghost of Derek’s touch on his cheek. “The back of my head and my stomach.”  

Derek nodded. He watched Stiles crack his knuckles. 

“I’d like it if you went to the nurse to see if you’re really OK but it’s your decision.” Derek must have recognized something on Stiles’ face because he said, “If you want, I’ll sign a note so you can stay here until you feel better.”  

The teen shook his head. “I really need to get to class.” He stood.  

Jackson had stepped on the teen’s backpack in his haste to hit him. He slung it over one shoulder, not bothering to wipe off the dirty footprint that stuck out on the black cloth. “Thank you, Derek,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. He walked past the older male, keeping his head down to hide the redness on his cheeks.  

   
Stiles made it to Biology a minute before the bell. A total shit storm was about to rain down on him, unless Jackson got it in his cave-man brain that Stiles didn’t tell on him. The bell rang. The sound made Stiles grit his teeth. High pitched and ringing, it traveled up and down his spine. He sighed in relief when the shrieking stopped.  

Fifteen minutes passed. He didn’t think his stomach was in danger of clawing its way out of his throat anymore. The dizziness hadn’t diminished much. That was OK. Lately, it was a constant companion. Well, that and the overwhelming anxiety/depression duo he felt ninety percent of the time. He swore they were like a tag team in a wrestling match. Anxiety would get tired and Depression would substitute. By the time it was worn out, Anxiety would be ready to fight again. Stiles had no partner. He was alone in the ring and no matter how tired he became, he had to keep going. An endless fight. Two undefeateable opponents.  

   
He entered the room for Economics and his eyes instantly met Lydia’s. She must’ve been watching the door. Stiles put his head down and went into an aisle of what he thought of as ‘the universal table for science rooms’. The only reason why the Economics room had the peculiar desks was because it became Earth Space Science the last two hours of the day. He wasn’t even at the table before Lydia stood up and walked towards him. S _he thinks I told on Jackson. She knows about the fight. Oh Brahma, please let my death be swift. And could you make my jiva into a dragon? That would be sweet._   

She stepped past the stools. Her eyes never left his. Lydia was the hawk. Stiles was the prey. 

She approached, mouth set in a firm line. “Genim Stilinski,” she called. He cringed. The full name was only used when someone meant serious business. Lydia stepped in front of him and wrapped her arms around his neck. Her face found his shoulder. He looked down at the prettiest girl in school, hugging him like his life depended on it. And maybe it did.   

“Aren’t you going to hug me back?” She whispered in his ear. He nodded. One hand delicately touched her back. The other followed. Rain pelted the windows and a crushing flood shattered the glass. Dirty liquid rushed into the room and surrounded the two. He couldn’t breathe. He hoped the water wouldn’t get to Lydia.  

“Stiles, I’m so sorry. Honestly- I didn’t know what he’d been doing. He would say things sometimes but you acted like it didn’t bother you so I thought everything was OK. The counsellor called me into her office, because everyone knows I’m dating him, and asked if he was…abusive or anything and after some questioning, I got her to tell me the details.” Of course she had. No one denied Lydia.  

She lifted her head off his shoulder. Their eyes connected. It was hard to make out anything around him because of the murky water, but he could see her face perfectly. Her eyes were red. The makeup that had been applied to the beautiful orbs was smudged slightly. The Great Lydia. Queen of BHHS. His childhood crush, was crying on his shoulder. This would have been his nine year old self’s dream. But he wasn’t nine anymore and she wasn’t his crush. He centralized his mind on the sensation of Lydia’s hands on his shoulders and her green eyes staring into his. The water disappeared down the drains in the floor and he was left standing there. Soaking and scared, but alive. She gasped, seeing the bruise on his jaw. She lifted her hand to feel the dark spot. It hovered there. Could her touch ease the pain?  

“Did he…?” She let the unspoken question hang there. Those words spiraled around the teens. Threatening to smother both of them. 

He nodded. Her eyes grew wider. Lydia’s hand moved the last inch forward and connected with his face. She gently stroked the mark. Mouth forming words that went unspoken. And unexpectedly, he wanted to cry. He wanted to wail so loudly the whole school heard. He wanted be a child again, tugging at his mother’s skirt, begging to be held. He wanted to scream and cry. Tears and saliva dripping down his face from the pure force of preadolescent emotion. But his mother was gone and he wasn’t a child. He needed to focus on what was right in front of him. Lydia was. And she was staring at him with impossibly big, green eyes. He wanted to cry. But he didn’t.  

“Stiles, I’m sorry. He- oh my God, I didn’t know.”  

Stiles nodded, slightly turning away from those eyes. He saw too much innocence in them. Too much hope.  

“I- he said I told on him. Well, I didn’t. He attacked me in the locker room. Derek walked in and stopped him,” Stiles confessed.  

They heard an obnoxious laugh from outside the open door and Lydia pulled away. Two boys entered the room and sat in the front row. At their desk, she pulled out her phone and used the reflection to fix her makeup. She applied a layer of glittery, pink lip gloss. No one would be able to tell she’d been crying.  

Without even looking at him, she said, “Derek. You called him Derek, not ‘Coach’.”  

Stiles grabbed the handle of his backpack from where it was placed on the floor and put it on his lap. He started digging through it. Partly because he needed time to find a response to Lydia’s observation. Partly because he needed his mechanical pencil. Two birds with one stone.  

A line of students trickled into the room, followed by Derek. Stiles triumphantly grabbed his pencil from the bottom of his bag (he swore there was a vortex in it, sucking up his stuff, and spitting it out somewhere that’s not his backpack ). He looked up and briefly, their eyes met. Derek smiled. Nodded. An unspoken acknowledgement. The interaction was short-lived and when the teen turned to look at his friend, she was staring intensely at him.  

She narrowed her eyes. Gaze scrutinizing. “Are you guys fucking?”  

His face flushed. “No, we aren’t.”  

She continued to watch him. “You want to though, right?”  

He adjusted the pencil in his hand and drew a line on the table. And then another.  

“Oh my gosh. Lydia. I’m not discussing this with you.”  

She smiled. “Oh sweetie, you’ve really fallen hard.”  

Derek sat at his desk. Completely oblivious.  

Economics ended with a ring of the bell. Maybe students would be happier if every forty five minutes a song  played. Literally, anything would be better than the intense wailing that signaled passing period. He put his pencil and notebook into the vortex where he probably wouldn’t see them again. He stood, Lydia at his side. She gave him a comforting squeeze on the hand.

“I’m breaking up with him.”   

The gravity of that statement shook Stiles’ core. Seven seconds had passed. Four more and they’d be out of the room. Lydia and Jackson had been dating almost as long as Erica and Boyd. They weren’t even considered a separate being anymore. Where one went, the other followed. Lydia said she loved him sophomore year and Jackson promised to marry her when they graduated. He looked at her face. Mouth slightly open. No emotion was shown on her pristine features.  

“Lyds…” _You can’t do this just for me. I’m not worth it. You love him._   

“I have to do this. I can’t be ‘that girl who married an asshole’.” They walked through the halls. Lydia was amazing. He felt the need to embrace her but people crowded around them and the queen of the school didn’t need to be seen hugging the sexually and religiously ambiguous nerd. They both understood that. For the second time that day, he wanted to cry. But he didn’t.   

    
It was lunchtime. The worst time of the day. His jaw had a constant throbbing that sent waves throughout the rest of his face. Throbbing that soon became a headache. He decided he wasn’t going to eat the rest of the day. Calories from the Oreos had probably soaked into his body in the time it took him to drink an entire water bottle, walk to the bathroom, and touch the ‘sweet spot’ on the back of his tongue that triggered his gag reflex. How much weight had he gained from indulging? _Probably all that weight you just lost. I can see it, pooling at your thighs._   

 _Oh. Thanks,_ PSLTMOTTBDA.  

Stiles walked to the doors. One deep breath. Then two. The spacious room filled with water. Everyone inside was unaware of it rising up to their necks and falling down to their toes in uneven intervals. He could feel the spray coming from the waves. He held his breath and waded into the room. The cold of the water was a jolt of electricity on his skin. Stiles barely made it past the doors to the cafeteria before a hand seized his shoulder, almost knocking him on his ass. The illusion dissipated.  He was standing amidst a sea of teenagers and white/maroon/and grey tile.  He looked at the owner of the appendage resting on his shoulder and was met with the smiling face of his best friend.  

“Hey, dude,” Scott said cheerfully. Stiles smiled. Allison wasn’t with him. They started walking forward. Scott removed his hand.  

“Hi, where’s Allison?” He asked as they made it to the end of the line. Scott stretched his arms above his head, a sliver of stomach muscle peaked out from the bottom of his shirt.  

“She’s out sick today…Oh man, where’d you get that bruise?”  

Stiles’ hand clenched. The line moved forward. He grabbed a tray.   

“Well, someone snitched on Jackson and he got OSS. Naturally, he assumed it was me. And overreacting is his specialty. He attacked me in the locker room.” He had his back to Scott as he slid his tray on the metal rack to the side of them.  

“Are you serious?”  

Stiles nodded.  

“That’s rough. You really didn’t say anything to get him suspended?”  

Stiles put a container of strawberry jello on his tray. There was no lemon water, so he chose a bottle of honey tea instead.  

“Scott, you know me. No matter how much of a dick Jackson can be, I wouldn’t do that.” Not out of some ‘no snitching’ creed. He just really wanted to avoid getting punched. And not telling obviously did him no favors in the end. He still ended up with bruises. The girl in front of him typed out her account number. The back of her shirt read ‘Pledge to be Drug Free’. Fuck that. Stiles turned around to look at his friend. Scott smiled and lifted up his hand. The hit was light, aimed at his shoulder. An affectionate gesture.  

“Haha, sucks for Jackson.”  

Boyd was sitting at the table when they finished paying for their food. They made their way over and Scott said, “Dude, look at Stiles’ face,” as he patted him on the back. One. Two times. The hand stopped.  

Boyd cocked his head. “Wow, since when do you get in fights?”  

Stiles set his tray on the table. Scott took the seat next to him. He unscrewed the cap to his tea and waited for the foam to die down. He explained the situation to the other teen.  

Boyd looked at the napkin in the center of the table, which was there for some reason.  

“That bites. It was Jackson, wasn’t it?”    

Stiles nodded, taking a sip of the drink in his hand. It was disgusting. Another small drink. Yep, still disgusting. In his peripheral vision, Stiles could see Scott’s expression. He knew that face well; confusion. His friend wore it almost constantly when they had Geometry together freshman year.  

“Wait, how’d you know it was Jackson? I thought it was Greenberg when I first saw the bruise,” Scott asked.  So Stiles had been right, the big kid’s name was Greenberg. Score. Stiles: one. Acute anomic aphasia: eight billion, probably.  

Boyd picked at the red cubes of meat on the square pizza in front of him. The guy hated pepperoni. “Well, a reliable source of mine said he might get very angry at some people for his suspension.”  

Scott and Stiles shared a look.   

“Is your ‘reliable source’ Erica?” Scott said, eyebrow raised.  

Boyd laughed. “No..?”   

So it was her.  

“I knew it was Erica,” Stiles said. No venom in his words.  

“And what am I being accused of?” She asked, coming from behind Scott. She put her food down next to Boyd’s.  

“You had something to do with Jackson’s suspension and Stiles got into a fight with him because of it,” Scott said around a mouth full of mashed potatoes. He had the table manners of a three year old.  

Erica looked at Stiles with an expression that said _Is this true?_ Her eyes widened at the sight of the bruise of his face. “Stiles, I’m so sorry.”  

He took another drink of the tea. Spared one glance at the jello. He wasn’t planning on eating it.  

“Erica, it’s OK. The Coach broke it up before anything really bad happened.” He didn’t actually know if that was true. Potentially, he could have a ruptured spleen. Or something else could be damaged.  

Boyd patted her on the back. Stiles could tell she felt bad. He wanted to comfort her but that was her boyfriend’s job.  

Lydia never came to lunch. Stiles wasn’t surprised. Her palate was too advanced for school food. He wondered if she had broken up with Jackson yet. He hoped she wouldn’t do it over text. A text, however, would be a clear indicator of her feelings. When she decided she didn’t like someone, she committed all of her energy making sure they knew it. Many girls had fallen because of Lydia’s power. Jackson would soon join them.  

Lunch block was actually a good experience that day. Without Allison there, Scott was aware of the other people around him. Her perfume must’ve had some kind of pheromone. Like a queen ant, except, instead of ants, horny teenage boys. 

He got up from the lunch table with an empty bottle of tea and an unopened cup of jello. Erica went to throw her stuff away with him.  

“Stiles, are you really OK?” She said, walking next to him with a tray full of Styrofoam and food waste.  

“Yeah, totally. Why?” He threw the containers into the trash can and stacked his tray in the window. She shrugged. Averted his eyes.  

“You just don’t seem, I don’t know…like you aren’t yourself, I guess? I’ve noticed for a while now.”  

“Catwoman. Everything’s fine.”  

“Is your dad still drinking?”  

Stiles didn’t answer.  

She inhaled sharply through her mouth. “Does he…still say stuff?”  

“Listen, I said-”  

She interrupted. “I had an older friend before I moved here that wore long sleeves every day, even in PE and Stiles, please tell me you aren’t-”  

He turned away from her. “Erica, I said I’m fine.”  

 _Everything’s fine_ , he repeated as he walked out of the cafeteria. Water rained down from the ceiling.  

    
   

There was a pep assembly last hour so yay! No PE. A gymnasium full of screaming high schoolers? Not so yay! The principal’s voice boomed over the intercom. “Go to the gym after seventh period. Sit with your last hour class…” and from there, Stiles tuned him out. He didn’t like Mr. Richards, the principal (‘The Turtle Man’, Erica had named him when she first moved to BH in the sixth grade. The man had no chin and his nose stuck out and angled downward, hence ‘turtle’). And there was no way he'd attend an event where the main purpose was to see how many decibels over the sound barrier they could achieve.

His head was aching. Stiles had no desire to hear over nine hundred teenagers screaming simultaneously. He was getting to the point where he was on the beach. Sand under his feet. Water touching his toes. He kept blinking and shaking his head. Trying to find his way back to the hallways of Beacon Hills High School.

He walked to the library after the bell signaling the end of eighth hour passing period finished ringing. He waited outside the doors. Six seconds passed. He ducked inside when the librarian’s back was turned, restocking the books on a colorful shelf. The blue letters above her read ‘Fantasy’.  

He weaved his way through the maze of books. His goal was a corner in the back towards the right where a bookshelf of biographies met one with various encyclopedias and dictionaries. Literally, in all three years of him being in high school, he had never seen someone go over there for ‘school purposes’ (he _had_ seen a senior couple making out over there his freshman year. The guy had the girl pressed against the shelf, head between _Mark Twain: an Autobiography_ and _Muddy Waters_ ). Even the right side of the only florescent light in that corner was burned out.  

He dropped his backpack on the ground and joined it, leaning against the wall. Stiles plugged his head phones into his iPod. The waves chasing his heels dissolved into the ground. He sighed. Only two things existed in the world. Hozier’s _Take Me to Church_ and the emptiness in his stomach.   

~ ~ ~ 

Something nudged him in the ribs. His eyes were closed, head using his backpack as a pillow. He opened one eye while removing an ear bud. Derek stared down at him. An amused look on his face. The man wasn’t wearing his regular ‘gym teacher’ clothes, but instead, a button down shirt and business-casual jeans. His red and grey running shoes abandoned for black Vans. He smiled. From a distance, they could be mistaken for what the staff were ‘supposed’ to wear. That was probably the whole point. _I didn’t know the company made shoes that big. What are those? Twelves? Thirteens?_   

“Shouldn’t you be at the assembly?” Derek asked. He relaxed. The threat of being busted erased.  

“Um, you’re the teacher in this situation. Shouldn’t _you_ be at the assembly to control the throng of screaming children?” Stiles opened his eyes, sitting up two seconds later. Derek shrugged. A hand rubbed over the dark hair on the back of his head.  

“Yes, actually, I’m supposed to, but that doesn’t mean I want to. I just can’t deal with all the yelling right now so I came here to hide because, well, no one ever comes back here.”    

He smiled. Patted the space of carpet next to him. Two. Three times. “Well, you’re welcome here. We could start a club.”   

Derek stared a moment at the teen in front of him. He joined him on the floor.  

“We can be ‘Hate All Things Especially Richards _’_ ,” Derek joked.   

Stiles laughed quietly. “OK, besides the obvious disdain you have towards the principal, which is totally understandable by the way, is our club an acronym for HATER?”  

Derek laughed. “I’ve been sitting on that name ever since I met him last year. He-” the man shook his head, “-just sucks. As a person. And a leader. But mostly as a person.” Stiles nodded.  

“Erica calls him The Turtle Man.” Derek threw his head back in a laugh. Loud for approximately for two seconds before he realized they were both supposed to be hiding.  

“I’ve been trying to figure out what animal he reminded me of. Turtle Man? That’s perfect.”  

Stiles stared straight ahead. The bookshelf parallel to the wall he sat against blocked his view from the rest of the library. He could feel Derek’s eyes on him.  

“So, how are you doing? Since this morning, I mean.”  

Stiles’ knees inched up. An unconscious movement. A defensive position. He shrugged and picked at the string on his jeans. He bought them with pre made holes. His father had a field day when he saw what Stiles purchased. ‘In my day, no one had holes in their pants by choice. Who in their right mind would purposely buy brand new clothes that are already worn out? I swear this generation…’. Every time he slid them on, no matter how careful he was, his foot punched through the opening, tearing it further. The teen just laughed at his father then for being old fashioned but maybe the man had won in the end.   

“Can I?”   

He turned towards Derek. His hand was raised. Stiles understood. He nodded twice.  

The older male brought his hand forward and touched the bruise on his face. He held the teen’s jaw between his index finger and thumb, turning his face slightly, trying to assess the damage. Stiles felt the heat rise to his cheeks. He wanted Derek. His whole being yearned for the man in front of him. He had never felt that level of longing in all sixteen years of life.  

“Derek-” The bell rang, successfully cutting off his next words. Which was probably a good thing. The metallic shrill ended and with it, his desire. _Hormones,_ he told himself. It was just a little crush. It would end soon. They were often fleeting. Ephemeral. Not lasting.   

A look of disappointment played across Derek’s features. One second. So brief Stiles thought he imagined it. He stood and offered a hand to Stiles. The teen chalked the look up to his imagination desperately trying to grab at anything resembling reciprocated feelings in the other man. Besides, what did Derek have to be disappointed about? He took the offered appendage, knowing he wouldn’t be able to get up by himself. The dizziness was back. Magnified by fifty.  

“Are you ready to fight your way through a legion of teenagers who just spent the last hour perfecting their battle cries?” Stiles asked as they made their way side-by-side to the library doors. The librarian raised her eyebrows at their sudden appearance but made no comments.  

Derek looked at him sideways and laughed. They stood in front of the doors. Through the glass, students could be seen hitting each other and yelling. Acting like, well, teenagers.   

“And this is why I hide in my broom closet office until the halls are safe.”  

They looked at each other one last time. Stiles’ eyes drifted to the man’s lips. What would they feel like against his own?  

“I don’t think I’ll be going to practice.” Derek nodded. Stared for two more seconds. Stiles grew embarrassed and looked down smiling, in the way only someone talking with their crush could manage. He put his hand on the door. Letting it rest there. The cold of the handle met his fingertips.  

“I’ll text you?”   

Derek smiled. A lazy expression that suited him more than the constant scowl. Maybe that’s why he always had stubble. To cover up the beginning frown lines.  

“I look forward to it.”  

    
Stiles parked his jeep in the street by his house. Exuberance leaked through every pore when he had stepped out of the library. Any happiness he felt, however, went away when he started the drive home. _My dad’s going to be so pissed when he finds out that I got into a fight. Neptune, what if he’s already drinking?_  

He pulled into the parking lot of a family diner owned by the Burger family. Throwing originality out the window and running over it with a semi, the family named it The Burger Joint. He cracked his knuckles.

The flood wiped out the building in front of him. It struck his vehicle with the force of a head-on collision. The pressure of the water shattered the glass and the cold liquid poured into the small space. He couldn’t breathe. Stiles grabbed his backpack from the passenger’s seat and dug out a baggie of pills Scott had given him on his way to out of the building. 

“That one fat kid on the team got to Jackson’s locker before anyone else. He’s selling all his stuff for almost nothing. I’m such a good friend that I’m willing to give these to you.” 

“Oh please, dude, I know you. You hate stimulants. You only like smoking that stuff you get from Danny.” 

Scott put a hand to his heart in a ‘while I never” motion. “Excuse you, I do not do drugs. What even is a weed?” 

Stiles rolled his eyes, smiling. “I do appreciate it. Thanks, man.” 

 He wasn’t really sure what was what exactly but Scott was told by ‘the fat kid on the lacrosse team’ that there were amphetamines and other ‘uppers’ contained in the plastic. He retrieved five of the unknown pills and chugged them down with half a can of Monster sitting in the cup holder for an undisclosed amount of time. The flood almost instantly vanished and the water flowed out.

He drew a long breath in. Held it. _This is so fucking messed up. Stiles_  drove around for fifteen minutes before finally deciding to face the nightmare that was sure to be waiting for him.

He sat in his jeep, his dad’s police cruiser parked in the driveway. Stiles looked in the mirror above the dash. The bruise was a deep shade of purple with varying tones of blue; the whole thing rimmed in a fierce red. It was unmistakably the shape and size of a fist. There would be no hiding it.  

He walked to the door and took out his house key, not even bothering to check the lock. His father had been sheriff approaching four years but was a deputy before that for closer to twelve. And old habits die hard. _The door is to be locked at all times._ His father ingrained in him, ever since his brain developed enough to understand human speech.

Stiles didn’t really know why his father was so paranoid about it. What sane person would break into the house of a member of law enforcement? Besides, if someone did, the pool of suspects was pretty small and Mothers Opposing Mayhem ( _MOM. Ha-ha. Yes, mothers of Beacon Hills, we see what you did there. So funny. Dying laughing. You’re so clever_ ), basically city-funded snitches, urged citizens to report any suspicious activity.

But trying to use reason with his dad was about as effective as trying to tear down a brick wall. With a piece of salmon.  

 He shoved his key into the lock. Stiles paused, hand on the knob. Zeno of Citium. _What would he do_? He opened the door, submitting to his fate. His eyes scanned the living room and stairwell. His preliminary search found no trace of the man. He put one arm on the wall by the door to steady himself as he took off his shoes. Getting back up proved difficult when the edges of his vision started to turn black. His sight completely darkened for five seconds. Enough time to knock him on his ass.  

“Stiles?” His father called from the general direction of the kitchen. It felt like there was cotton shoved in his ears. Everything was muffled. He tried to stand up again. He couldn’t. His dad spotted him on the floor. “Stiles?” He repeated.  

Stiles shook his head. Tried again, vision swimming. His fourth attempt yielded similar results.  

John Stilinski crouched on his knees and rested a hand on his son’s shoulder. A soothing gesture. Just trying to help. Ineffective but ‘trying’ nonetheless.  

“Stiles, what’s wrong?” He couldn’t answer. He was breathing too heavily, driving his heart rate up. The breaths were shallow. The rate at which he inhaled oxygen was significantly lower than the rate he exhaled carbon dioxide. Every second that passed, his red blood cells failed to carry the necessary amount of oxygen to his brain. He was hyperventilating.  

Stiles clamped his eyes shut. The palms of his hands pressed against his ears moments later. He began shaking his head, something he remembered Scott showing him after the first time he was accidentally kicked in lacrosse. He was met with the image of fourteen year old Stiles, sitting in a sea of AstroTurf, hands pressed to the sides of his skull. His best friend came over from somewhere and leaned down, hands on his knees. “Dude, when that happened to me, I just got up and shook my head. Like, really hard. You know that phrase ‘shake it off’, well, that’s what I did.”  

Past-Stiles didn’t look up. “And how is that supposed to help?” Scott made his signature confused face. Eyebrows knit. Lips downturned. “Well, you know when you get burned or your fingers get caught in a door or something and your automatic reaction is to shake your hand? It’s like that. Just imagine you’re shaking out the pain and when you stop, it’s like ‘wow, I feel better’.” Stiles had looked up and punched Scott in the shin. “You’re so lame.”   

He could feel his dad touching him, comforting him, but everything was so disconnected. Like he was watching a movie filmed in first person. He saw everything happen from his perspective, but his body was left there, curled against the front door, and his mind was taken into another room to watch it unfold. Unable to do anything.  

John went into sheriff mode. _Panic attack?_ “OK, put your knees up.” Stiles didn’t move. Didn’t even look at his father. The sheriff bent one leg ( _too skinny_ , he noted) at the knee. Whatever part of his son’s brain that wasn’t completely racked with…well. He didn’t really know what caused this episode. Fear? Anxiety? OK, he reworded, whatever part of his son’s brain that wasn’t completely useless during this particular crisis, followed the sheriff’s lead and mirrored the folded leg.   

His mind looked at the screen in front of him. Thirty feet tall with a very worried expression was his father, trying to communicate apparently, based on the way his mouth was moving. There was no audio so his words were lost. The attachment to his body hadn’t completely severed. He felt before he saw his body’s leg bending. Three seconds later, he watched his dad position his leg so it was touching his chest. Stiles understood. Tried to bend the other. He was unsuccessful. The teen’s body wasn’t his to control at the moment. He grasped for that single string binding him to his physical form. It was almost out of his reach. He jumped. Stretched up. His hand wrapped around it. He pulled.  

John replaced the hand on his shoulder and rocked him from side to side. Unresponsive. His son had stopped shaking his head. _Seizure?_ Some of the symptoms matched. The kid’s arms shook from the exertion on his muscles as he pressed his skull. Further investigation revealed that, no, the arms could not be removed. The limbs were so skinny tooth picks would whisper in jealously at their size but John didn’t think anything short of the apocalypse could dislodge them. He slid the hand over and felt for the carotid artery in his neck. A very fast and very erratic pulse met his fingertips. _Cardiac arrest?_ He noted the blue tinge his quivering lips were taking.   

The first thing Stiles noticed was the lack of air being drawn into his body. The second was the hand pressed to each ear. After a brief limb check, he realized they were his. That’s when he noticed the sound. When his mother was still alive ( and the FTD hadn’t been diagnosed) and his dad was still… _his dad_ , they liked to travel. No destination was too far away. He was five. They were at the Kilauea volcano in Hawaii. One of the most active in the world. They stood, watching. Amazed at the beauty of nature. Child-Stiles loved it. This _noise_ in his ears was what he heard standing on the precipice of that mountain. He was taken back to that island. His body’s natural functions echoed that deafening ash emission filled silence. He remembered his mother kneeling down. Her lips moved. Her voice was drowned in the noise of the volcano. It was the sound of activity. With his hands pressed to his ears, it was the sound of life.    

The last thing was the darkness. He tried to think of why there would be no light. Oh. Right. Eyelids. He noticed the stars. The burst of colors. Phosphene. The neurons in his orbitals randomly fired, activating other visual neurons. He was lost in the pattern of lights playing in front of his eyes and the eruption of blood flowing in his ears. _Open them. Go back to reality. You aren’t at the volcano. Open your eyes._   

And he did. That seemed to break whatever spell-from-hell he was under. The opening of his eyes triggered his brain to take control again. Dilated pupils found his father and he removed the hands that had blocked out the man’s help. Stiles’ lungs filled to maximum capacity and his oxygen-starved brain let out a sigh of relief.  

“Stiles? Are you back?”  

He blinked. Once. Twice. Nodded.  

His father scrubbed a hand over his face. Stiles felt like throwing up.  

“It was a bad one, wasn’t it?” His son asked when he finally recovered his voice.  

John looked at him. “Stiles, I’m not even sure what ‘it’ was. I had literally just dialed the nine for nine-one-one because I didn’t know what was wrong. I think it was a seizure but it could’ve been palpitations. Scratch that. I _know_ it was palpitations. Well, part of it. And also malnutrition. Or maybe it _was_ a panic attack and it was disguised as something else.” Mr. Stilinski exhaled. “You scared me.”  

Stiles scratched the wounds on his arm through the hoodie he was wearing. They itched.  

“I’m sorry, dad.”   

John stared at his son from where he sat on the floor, looking impossibly small. Truly looked at him. Maybe for the first time in months. He was skinny, that much was apparent, even under the layers he wore. But John had felt those limbs through their cloth-cover. And he had felt bone. He was not just awkward-and-lanky-teenager skinny, but ohmygosh-please-eat-a-sandwich-right-now type of skinny. Probably passed the ‘underweight’ mark five pounds ago. He had darkness under his eyes and- was that a bruise on his cheek?  

His father reached forward suddenly and grabbed Stiles’ jaw. His son froze at the contact. The sheriff ignored it. The bruise was definitely caused by a fist. The teen turned away from the grip on his face. The sheriff’s hand remained in the same position, hovering in the air. One second. He lowered it.  

“Really, Stiles? You’re getting into fights now?”  

The boy-in-question said nothing. He stood, using the door as leverage. The strength to pull himself up came from unknown sources. His dad followed. The teen took one step past the man, who was still processing ‘Stiles’ and ‘fight’ in the same sentence. The teen was becoming very aware of the fact his father had a couple inches and at least one hundred pounds on him. John broke out of his stupor. He grabbed the thin wrist attached to the person attempting to walk away. Trying to flee before conflict arose.  

“Answer me. Now.”  

Stiles looked at the large hand. Then back to the eyes. Replied, “Dad, I didn’t even do anything. The guy was just a major douche and he thought I did something that got him suspended. And it barely even counted as a fight. He punched me a few times and then Derek came in and stopped him.”   

His father tightened the grip he had on his son. Stiles wrenched his arm away. Never breaking eye contact. He ignored the throbbing. Not daring to rub it. The man’s subconscious would pick up on the action and indirectly associate display-of-pain with weakness. The teen was determined not to let that happen.  

“And Derek is…?”  

Fuck. He needed to stop calling him Derek in front of people.  

“The Coach. Coach Derek.”  

His father nodded. Chewing on the information for three seconds. Another question.  

“And why did I not get a call?”  

“Because I told him not to-”  

“What? Stiles, I’m your father-”  

“Dad, you have a tendency to overreact!”  

“Overreact? Excuse me for caring about my only son’s safety. I’m so sorry that my ‘tendency’ gets in the way. Your mom-”  

“Oh no, don’t bring mom into this. I’m tired of her being used as a justification for your parenting choices. ‘Your mom would’ve wanted me to call the school’, no, actually. She wouldn’t. She doesn’t want anything. You know why? Because she’s dead.”  

Stiles watched the expressions play across his father’s face in slow motion as the man absorbed what he had said. Confusion. Anger. Rage.   

“How dare you.” He was shaking. Quivering from the effort of trying to restrain his emotions. Stiles expected that.  

The punch to the face? Stiles had not expected that. The force of it made him stumble backwards. He didn’t know where to look; his father’s raised fist or his eyes. He chose the eyes. No remorse was expressed in the vibrant green orbs. His tongue tentatively ran over his bottom lip. He tasted blood.  

“Don’t ever-God damn it- never say that,” the man said between clenched teeth. Waiting, _begging,_ for another excuse to strike his son.  

 _Stiles, please keep your mouth shut,_ his rational mind pleaded. _Screw being rational,_ he told it. He ignored the pain throughout his body. The dizziness in his head. The emptiness in his stomach.   

“Why? Why can’t I say that? Dad, you may not like it but she’s dead. She died a long time ago. She’s gone and she’s never coming back. I’m all you’ve got left and I think when you accept that, you’ll be a lot happier.”  

His dad looked thoughtful for about one second and then his expression turned to raw emotion. And there it was, all of those feelings he’d been repressing poured out. He stepped closer. They’d hug and everything would be OK. Except, his father didn’t have the look of a man who wanted peace. His look was one of war.   

“Dad?” The man’s breathing was heavy. His mouth couldn’t form the right words. Stiles backed up.  

In a single stride, John enclosed the space between them. He bunched up his son’s shirt in each hand and used his hold on the material to throw him on the ground.  

Stiles was _really_ not expecting that. His shoulder slammed into the hard wood. A well aimed kick to his stomach cut off any attempt at verbal protest. He curled on his side. Hands moved to hold his midsection. And would you look at that, Jackson had punched him there just that morning. Stiles had forgotten about that dull ache in his side and now it was back. Three times as powerful. Dull wasn’t the word for it anymore. ‘Sharp’ was definitely a better description.  

The teen tried to stop his father’s shoe digging into his side. Each blow projected a number in his head. Six. Seven. Stiles tried grabbing the foot. No luck. Eight. John was yelling a blue streak. His words lost to an angry slur. Eleven. Twelve. And then, the relentless pounding stopped. John knelt over his son.  

“I was never like this before she left. I never drank, I never yelled. You did this. You made me like this.” Stiles didn’t open his eyes. He smelled alcohol.  “Why was it her? She didn’t deserve to die. Why couldn’t it have been you?” The man stood and one last kick left him out of breath as the front door slammed shut. He curled farther into himself. Arms wrapped tighter around his middle. Stiles felt like puking. Or crying. Or puking and crying at the same time. He was still deciding.   

The setting sun poured into the room and cast a spot light that exposed the underside of the couch. His mom had hated that couch. It had raised legs. Which meant anything could be pushed under there. He thinks that was the main reason she disliked it; the woman hated cleaning. It would always have to be moved and the floor would have to be swept. When was the last time they did that?  He could see a dust bunny. But like, a dust monster. Like if he tried to get rid of it, it would get rid of him instead. He stared at the thing, wishing he could just be a dust monster living under someone’s furniture. It would be a simple existence. Basically no stress. Except, if the owner of that furniture finds you living under there, well, then you die. _Dust monsters can’t feel pain._ An invisible knife stabbed him in the stomach. Stiles brought his legs up higher and his arms trembled.  

He closed his eyes.  

He was on a beach.  

    
Stiles eventually got up. Lying there did nothing for him. The floor was cold and hard and didn’t provide any comfort. So he stood and hobbled his way up the stairs. One hand leaned heavily against the wall. The other held his aching stomach. His destination was the bathroom.  

He stepped inside, flicking on the light. Stiles looked in the mirror. His reflection stared back. Both pupils were blown wide. His body’s pupillary response was widening his pupils as the stimulants circulated in his bloodstream. _Too many amphetamines on an empty stomach. Dad was probably right. Maybe a petit mal seizure? Or even a Grand Mal. That can be drug induced._ Erica had epilepsy. She rarely had seizures, though. “I use to all the time but I guess I kind of grew out of it.” Still, she had taken it upon herself to inform him of the Racine stages, just in case. _But palpitations can happen because of stimulants. And anxiety. A panic attack explains the depersonalization. I guess I can just assume it was all that stuff wrapped up in one awesome experience._  

His bottom lip was split. The bleeding had stopped. The colorful mark on his cheek still resembled the holy mother of bruises. And there were those little red dots. Broken capillaries. Faded slightly, but still there. ‘Hey, look at us. A reminder of how much of a piece of shit you are. You can’t even manage eating properly’. He carefully unzipped his hoodie and shrugged it off. Every move sent sparks of pain rippling through his body. He lifted up the red shirt that hung too loosely on his small frame. His stomach was a mess of sharp hipbones and bruises. But mostly bruises. He stared at the marks. Stiles’ eyes lingered for two seconds and then he lifted the fabric further up. The same pattern of marks covered the expanse of his ribs. He dropped the cloth. Inhaled. Then placed a shaking hand on his head. He combed his fingers through messy hair.

_You shouldn’t be surprised. You’ve known all along that he wanted it to be you. He loved her more. That’s why he let her abuse you when she was unstable._

Probably Shouldn't Listen To- fuck it- _PSLTMOTTBDA_ finally made its appearance. He tugged at the strands.   

“No, it’s not true.”  

 _He doesn’t love you._   

Stiles shook his head. “No.”  

 _He hates you._   

He removed his hands and stared into the mirror. Took in his appearance again.  

His reflection smiled. The Stiles trapped in the mirror whispered, “ _He wants you to die.”_   

And that brief interaction with the person in the mirror was enough for Stiles to lose control of the emotions he tried so badly to suppress. Teardrops rolled down his face. The feelings he’d been denying came bursting out. The way water does when the damn inevitably breaks. Sobs racked his malnourished body. Images of the beach flashed before his blurry eyes. _Just die._ He replaced the fingers on his head and dug the short nails into his scalp. He could hear the rushing of water downstairs. He wasn’t going to let the flood take him away. Stiles entered his room, tears in a silent race to fall down his cheeks. The metal tin made its way out from under his bed. He struggled to get the lid off.  

 _Make it easier on your dad._ He took an assortment of barbiturates and benzos and threw in the rest of his narcotics just for the hell of it. He grabbed the package of cigarettes because if there was ever a time to smoke; it was now. He went back to the bathroom. Seven pills were cradled in a shaking hand. He swallowed them with water from the faucet. He wiped the dribble of liquid from his chin.  

Stiles turned off the light, avoiding the person with his face in the mirror. He walked back to his room. The pencil sharpener called his name from inside the desk. The sound of rushing water grew louder.   

One. Two. Three. Four. He made the cuts neatly at first but they grew sloppy and overlapped as his emotions played a dangerous crescendo. _Die._ Twenty. Twenty one. Blood collected on the floor in front of him. _Too deep._ He distantly wondered if they required stitches.  

 _Die!_ Stiles heard a car pull into the driveway. His father was home. He pocketed the tiny blade. Walking over to his dresser, he slipped the red shirt over his head and grabbed the first black one in an open drawer. A towel covered the _vena sera_ on the carpet, which was going to stain. It would be a permanent reminder of the hunger. The exhaustion. The desperation.   

Fear swirled in his stomach and tangled around his spine. Fear of his only remaining parent. He fought his way through the crippling terror and the lock was turned in an attempt to keep the man outside.  

The boards in front of the door creaked. A knock. Panic coursed through his veins.  

“Stiles?” Another knock. His voice decided it was a good time to step out of the room.  

“Stiles, open the door.” The knob shook as his father grew impatient. He swallowed hard and backed away. He found his voice.  

“Go away, dad.” The knob continued twisting. A desperate attempt. The lock was his salvation.  

“Please, Stiles. Just let me in.” The teen closed his eyes and smiled in a manic sort of way. _Go away, Anna…_ God damn it, _this is not the time for Frozen jokes._ He exhaled. His dad was slurring. All humor was forgotten. 

“Dad, you’re drunk. I’m not letting you in here. Just- please. Just go to sleep.”  

The knob stopped its relentless shaking. A soft _thump_ came from the other side, presumably the man’s head against the wood.  

“Listen, I want to- Stiles, please let me in. Please, son, I didn’t-” there was a pause, “-do that on purpose. I miss her. And you make me so angry sometimes. Stiles, please unlock the door.”  

The teen didn’t move. He stayed pressed against the wall. The mouthed ‘no’ and accompanying head shake were lost on his father. He banged on the door. Once. Twice.             

“Stiles, open the door.”  

He shook his head, saying ‘no’ loud enough for John to hear. The knob jiggled and the banging continued.  

“If you don’t open this door right now, I’m going to beat you with a fucking two-by-four.”  

Fear. Terror. His eyes darted around the room. A plan. He needed a plan. _The window._ The drop was probably ten or eleven feet but the roof slanted and if he could just slide down, then it would be closer to six. He heard more threats but his brain blocked them out. _Need to leave, need to escape,_ he repeated in his mind. OK, shoes were downstairs. So were the keys. He took inventory of what he was wearing. Long sleeved _Fight Club_ shirt, and torn skinny jeans? _Seems adequate_. He threw the pack of cigarettes between the junction where his bed and the wall met. His pockets weren’t big enough and they’d probably get crushed during the drop anyway.

Stiles opened the window. He put one leg over the sill. And then the other. Ducked his head. The sky was dark. He wondered what time it was.  

“When I get this door open, you’ll fucking regret it. You- you mistake,” he heard his father scream.

His feet connected with the roof. And wow, six feet seemed a lot smaller in his mind. _Maybe it’s closer to seven or eight,_ he recalculated. He sat on his butt and scooted to the edge, legs dangling. He glanced up at the open window. No point in shutting it. He looked back at the ground, which seemed impossibly far away.

He shut his eyes. Swallowed hard. The fear of his father trumped the fear of jumping. Resolve found, his hands released the side of the roof and he braced himself for the impact. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the cliff hanger-ish ending. I'll try posting as soon as I can:3


	4. The pangs of despised love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe having someone to brave the flood with was all Stiles needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Dammit, man, I'm a writer- not a miracle worker."  
> -Me making excuses for leaving a chapter on a cliff hanger and not updating for over a week

There was a common misconception that any traces of the Neanderthal had been wiped out in _Homo Sapien’s_ brain. Evolution and the passage of time simply made the first modern human’s thought processes obsolete. The fight, flight (and the third, lesser known, freeze) response proved the opposite to be true. Over one hundred thousand years later, the basic stress reactions survived. Stiles’ brain was presented with a threat and chose ‘flight’. 

When he hit the ground, falling on his ass because that’s how his body worked, he took off. His adrenal gland reacted to the stress of the environment and pumped epinephrine into his blood stream. _Get away, get away_. 

He discovered very quickly how painful running on pavement was with bare feet. The running stopped. 

It was dark outside. Like, ‘Donna-go-save-the-Doctor-because-the-stars-are-going-out’ dark outside. 

Why was it so- a crack of lightning illuminated the sky. _Oh, no._

Stiles hated thunderstorms. And he was about to be caught in one. The smell of ozone surrounded him; a promise of all the lightning to come. The thunder was bad enough. Loud. Sporadic. 

The lightning though… that _really_ got his heart pumping. 

Such a simple thing; water and ice move around the clouds. The molecules are pushed up by warm air currents and down by gravity; the two forces causing them to compress. They rub together; creating static electricity. Those tiny positively charged sparks become a deadly power when they hit the ground. The bolts could reach temperatures hotter than the surface of the sun. And that myth where it can’t strike the same place twice? Complete and utter bull poo-poo. Rare? Yeah. Impossible? No. ‘Death by lightning’ did not sound appealing. 

Stiles walked to the park six blocks from his house. It seemed like a good idea to run there. Maybe when he didn’t feel like his bladder was going to let loose out of fear any minute, he’d go home.

His back pocket vibrated… Wait. _I had my phone this whole time?_ Stiles dug it out and stared at the device. Four letters were displayed on the screen. Home. He let the call end. 

It vibrated again. He ignored the ‘New Voicemail’ icon.

 

He flinched at the first clap of thunder. And the second. The rain started soon after.  Stiles leaned against the trunk of a tree. A futile attempt to block his screen from the falling water. 

The clock read nine forty five. He thumbed through his contacts. 

He tried Scott. It rang. Once. Twice. “ _Your call has been forwarded to an automated-”_  

He tried Erica. It didn’t ring. _“The caller you are trying to reach is-”_  

Lydia? It rang. And rang. And continued ringing. _“Hey, this is Lyds. I’ll get back to you-”_  

Allison’s phone went to voicemail on the first ring. He clicked Boyd’s and got the same response as Erica’s. The assholes (endearing terms and all that) were probably together and had their phones turned off. 

Perfect. Just perfect. He was out in the rain, which was really freaking cold by the way, alone, and apparently none of his friends loved him. Especially Scott. He didn’t even pretend to be away, he straight up rejected the call. 

He sat on a bench, the weak streetlight above him doing little to clear his vision.

 

It took ten minutes before he was completely soaked. Another fifteen for him not to care. The concoction of ‘downers’ he’d taken were starting to show themselves. The water pelting his body was an afterthought. 

 _Get out of the rain before you die,_ his rational mind said. 

He rested his head on metal of the bench. _But I feel good._ This _feels good,_ he told it. 

 _Call someone. Get help._  

Stiles huffed, taking out his phone. His body shielded the lifeline in his hands. 

The list of people he could call was dwindling. The only others were Jackson (umm, no), Home (no, again), and his dad’s cell (see: Home). And there, like a forgotten beacon of hope, was Derek’s number. His teeth started chattering. Shaking fingers pressed the screen. He lifted it to his ear. 

One ring. “I need help,” he said. Stiles needed to remind himself. His brain felt fuzzy. The purpose of the call drifted towards the fringes of his awareness. Dangerously close to falling into the abyss of forgotten thoughts.

Two rings. He hummed. The vibrations of his vocal chords felt strange.

Three rings. Thunder was beaten like a bass drum and it filled his head. Stiles let go of the thought in fear. It didn’t fall over the edge. The purpose of the call just…flew away. It buzzed around his head like an annoying mosquito he couldn’t see long enough to swat. 

Stiles swallowed thickly. “Holy fuck. That was loud-,” 

“Hello?” Came a voice from the other end. 

Stiles blinked. He stared at the phone in his hand. His mouth formed an ‘o’ as he looked at the contact name. 

“Hey, Derek.” Two seconds passed. Stiles furrowed his brow. He was supposed to say something but the thought was moving too quickly and he couldn’t grab it. 

“Stiles, it’s almost ten.” 

He nodded, sucking his lips as he said, “Yep, that sounds about right.” 

Derek started to say something along the lines of ‘why are you calling me?’, when he paused and instead went with, “What’s that noise?”  

Stiles looked at the storm around him. “Oh, yeah. That’s just the rain… it’s kind of cold…OK- actually a lot cold.” 

There was a pause. He could imagine Derek’s look of confusion. 

“You’re outside right now?” 

Stiles nodded. Then, realized Derek couldn’t see him. “Yeah.” He swatted the memory-mosquito and with its demise, he remembered the purpose of the phone call. “Oh- that’s why I called you. I need help. No one is answering their phone, well, except you-” 

“Are you serious?” The man interrupted.

Stiles laughed. A manic sound that had him turning away from the phone. “As a heart attack,” he quipped.

Derek ignored the attempt at what had become their usual banter. “Shit, where are you?” 

The sound of various items rubbing together filled his ear. Fabric rustling. Footsteps. 

“The park. Yeah. On a bench.” After a few seconds of silence, he added, “the one in the middle of town.” 

His reiteration seemed to satisfy the older man because he answered, “OK, I’m coming. Stay on the line.” 

Stiles nodded again. He felt sluggish. Like he was moving through a vat of jello. 

A rumbling noise came from Derek’s end; his car’s engine. 

“Why are you at the park?” his coach asked.

Stiles closed both eyes. Disappointment lined his face when he opened them and the answer to Derek’s question hadn’t magically appeared. 

“Oh, man. It’s not a good day when my dad starts to drink,” he said finally. A warmth was blooming in his chest. He licked his lip. The cut started to bleed again. 

“…I understand. I’ll be there in five minutes. Maybe six. Are you OK?” 

‘OK’ was a relative term. Blood loss (he was probably hovering around Grade 2. Maybe flowing towards Grade 3, if he was being honest). Potential overdose. Malnutrition. Bruised ribs. 

The flood of central nervous system depressants overstimulated his neurotransmitters. The arousal level in his brain decreased. Mass amounts of gamma-amino butyric acid entered his system. The dangers his body faced were soon forgotten. 

“Stiles?” 

He blinked slowly. “Yes. Here.” How long had Derek been calling his name? 

“Are you OK?” 

He shook his head. “You know, Derek, I’m really not sure.” 

The man let out a rough sigh. From Stiles’ end, the sound could’ve been interpreted as a growl. And that was more of a turn on than it should’ve been.

“Fuck, alright. I just got here. Look for my car.”  

Stiles stood up and whoa, his body was not ready to be vertical again. He made out the headlights through his darkened vision and the haze of pouring rain. The teen walked forward. In a straight line? No. More like a squiggle. 

The driver’s side door was open, Derek stood behind it. He ended the call as the teen approached. Stiles ducked inside. The heater was on.

“Here,” Derek said when he materialized beside Stiles, handing over a blanket. He wordlessly accepted it. 

Derek stared at him. Unfazed by the raindrops going off like minute bombs when they hit the windows. 

His eyes narrowed. “I don’t remember you having a split lip after the fight.”  

Stiles turned forward. Face burying itself in the blanket wrapped around him. “Yeah, I didn’t,” he replied, voice muffled by the cloth. “Thanks for picking me up, by the way,” he added. His words slurred around the heavy feeling in his tongue.

Derek didn’t move. Or stop staring at him. “Look at me.” 

Amber eyes found the older man’s as Stiles turned.

Confusion was evident on his face. “Your pupils…and your-” understanding dawned on the Coach. He taught at a high school and had seen his fair share of stupid decisions in college. He recognized what was happening. “-you…you’re high. What did you take?” 

Stiles said nothing. Silence filled the car. The storm raging around them was forgotten. Time stood still. The only thing that existed was Derek’s intense, green-eyed stare.

“ _Stiles,_ ” the man forced out. “What did you take?” Anger coated his voice.

  _Keep it together, man._ He tried for nonchalance. “I’m going to be completely honest and tell you I have no idea.” Derek stared at him with an expression the teen couldn’t place.  _Nice._ _That was a royal cock-up. Congratulations, Stiles. You’re an idiot._ The man’s jaw clenched, mouth trying to articulate his current feelings. _Dude… you broke him. You broke Derek._

The older male shut his eyes, sucking in a breath through his teeth. With his noticeably calmer exhale, time continued. The sounds of the storm filled their ears. 

“I’m going to need an explanation. Not right now but…after.” The look on Derek’s face told Stiles even he didn’t know what ‘after’ entailed. 

The man turned forward. The car started moving. 

“Are you taking me home?” Stiles asked, eyes trained on the driver. 

His grip tightened on the wheel, fingers going white. “What? No. I’m not…”, Derek didn’t finish his sentence. He sounded angry. Stiles had a feeling it wasn’t directed at him. 

He smirked into the blanket. Why was Derek getting mad? He opened his mouth to form the question but what little voluntary brain function he had started to shut off. The warmth spread to the tips of his toes. 

“Thanks, Derek,” he repeated. Stiles soundlessly yawned. 

Sleep called to him. It called to him the same way his mother used to, before the first time Claudia Stilinski died. Before a stranger took her place. 

His mother’s voice was soft. The words she spoke grew louder as time passed, never expressing impatience. The singing lull of that voice whispered his real name. She hummed the word; a foreign mumble of letters when he pronounced it. A song of beauty when she did. ‘Genim’ sounded like music when it left her mouth, adding a flourish that sounded so _right_. 

No longer was the word said with her gentle love. It sounded awkward on all tongues attempting to speak it. The name he once cherished was locked away; a hideous beast that burned his ears after every failed enunciation. Reminding him of Claudia’s foreign song. The song he couldn’t remember. 

He longed for his mother. For the woman she used to be. 

Sleep promised to bring him to her. 

He believed it.

 

A hand rested on his shoulder. There was a shake. 

Reality came rushing back as he sifted through the levels of consciousness. The ache in his torso. The hunger clawing at his insides. The pain in his head. The cold, wet soaking into his bones. The moment of coherence passed in a flash. The warmth returned. And so did the vat of jello. 

He opened his eyes. Derek leaned over him. The man was talking. 

“..iles..re……K?” 

The sound waves entered his ear canal and caused his eardrum to vibrate. Sending them to his brain to interpret as language. Derek’s voice was delayed.  

“Stiles, are you OK?” 

He nodded. Once. Twice. Stiles looked around, rubbing a tired hand over his eyes. He was still in the Camaro, which was in a parking garage. His surroundings registered slowly. He knew where they were after a beat. 

A hand was offered. Stiles accepted it. He could manage getting up with the older male’s assistance. Walking? Uhh, no. He took a step forward and almost toppled over. Two strong hands caught him under the arms, saving him from more ass-bruises. One of those same hands threw Stiles’ arm around the neck they belonged to. Then, wrapped around his waist. 

“Fuck- you don’t even have shoes on.” 

Stiles’ head lolled forward. 

“Hey.” Derek tried jostling the teen. “Stiles. Don’t go back to sleep. We still have to get there. That means walking. Are you ready?” 

Stiles nodded, not really getting what he was supposed to be ‘ready’ for. They started moving. He caught on pretty quickly. Right leg. Left leg. Right leg. 

“Derek, I really appreciate everything you’re doing,” he murmured, smiling. Why was he smiling? _Because I feel good. Everything’s good. Life’s amazing._ And maybe a little part was the feeling of Derek’s _very_ firm body pressed against his. He took what he could get. 

“Yeah, OK. Just focus on not falling.” 

Stiles was soaking and he knew Derek was getting wet, too. He wanted to apologize…for a lot of things. For getting him wet. For making him drive in the rain. For- 

“It’s fine. I’m the one who said if you needed help, I was here.” 

He’d been talking out loud? _Damn you, brain-to-mouth filter._  

They arrived at the double doors to an elevator. Derek was doing the walking for the both of them. Stiles couldn’t get the full cooperation of his legs. They’d decided to quit for the night. 'See ya later, Stiles. Have fun without us’, the bastards. 

 

They stood in the metal box of death. Derek looked down at his temporary charge. The teen’s head rested on a muscled shoulder. Soft puffs of breath tickled the skin exposed by his collar. Stiles was unconscious on his feet, an arm still limply hanging around Derek’s neck. 

Tremors racked his body; from the cold or something else, Derek couldn’t tell. 

The older male tightened his grip on the slim waist. Each breath expanded Stiles’ ribs, the delicate bones pushing against his skin. Derek felt each strained inhale through both of their wet shirts. He squeezed slightly. The muscles in his arm barely flexed as they pressed against Stiles’ small frame. The vertebrae of his spine poked out a sickening amount, obvious now with the fabric clinging to each jut of bone. Derek rubbed his arm up and down the narrow back. He frowned. 

He moved his arm closer to Stiles’ front, splaying his hand across the teen’s stomach. His hand, although in proportion with the rest of his large form, almost reached from one hip to the other. Every bone painfully bore through his skin.

With one hand, he could crush them. With a too tight hug, he could break the cage protecting his heart. 

The Coach gritted his teeth in anger that had no outlet. 

Stiles was intelligent and quick minded. Probably the biggest smart ass to walk the Earth. The duality between that brilliant mind and too breakable body had Derek feeling… he wasn’t sure. He didn’t like it, though. 

Stiles let out a pained breath. Derek’s mind refocused and he loosened his hold after nearly suffocating the too skinny and too pale teen. The frown on his face deepened. His touch could damage this boy beyond repair. The thought made him feel sick. 

 A _ding_ indicated the end of their ride. The metal box of death shook slightly. Stiles’ head lifted. Blinking eyes not actually taking in information. 

The pair made it to his door, the weak shuddering against his side spurring Derek to action mode. Spurring him to _just fucking get there and take care of Stiles_.

The loft was silent as they entered. The older man deposited him on the couch and threw a soft blanket over his shivering body (the other sat forgotten in the Camaro. Dropped on the floor when Stiles’ hands weren’t really his to control. Derek viewed it as a lost cause). He didn’t mind the water surely soaking into the cushions; the dark leather could handle it. 

The dry cloth placed on Stiles seemed to jar his mind enough from whatever drug-induced La-la Land he was in. He blinked and looked around. His head rested on the back of the sofa, neck bent in an uncomfortable arch, passing out once again in a (debatably) better position. 

He prioritized getting the teen warm and dry; everything else would be dealt with later.

Derek turned up the heat. _Now, clothes._ He jogged to his room. Anything he owned would definitely be too big on Stiles. _Fuck it._ He grabbed a pair of black sweat pants that were too small around his thighs and a plain, grey t-shirt from the gym he frequented. He snatched up a maroon sweat shirt the school had given him (he never wore it. The sleeves were too tight halfway up his forearms, never mind even trying to fit it over his chest).

“Stiles, I have dry clothes,” he said, when he made his way back to the couch. The teen didn’t stir. Eyes flew wide open but saw nothing. Derek crouched down in front of him. He shook his shoulder. No response. 

“Fuck. What are you on?” 

Stiles lifted his head and adjusted his body. The rapid blinking drew Derek’s attention to his lengthy eyelashes. 

“Derek,” he managed to get out. His voice was a mix of pain and on-the-verge-of-sleep slurring. 

“Yeah?” He answered, clothes clenched too tightly in his hands. Stiles’ voice gently calling his name pulled at something in Derek’s stomach.

“Derek,” he repeated, trembles making the blanket slip down his chest.

He swallowed. “Still here.” 

“My arm,” was the ambiguous response. No further explanation attached. 

 “Your arm?” Derek grasped the thin limb. Was it broken? He didn’t see anything wrong- that’s when he looked at his hand. Red. The sleeve was saturated. He kept his hold on the wrist and pulled up the dark shirt. Stiles was too far gone to hear the sharp intake of breath. 

“Fuck,” he cursed, because it was the only word that described everything about the situation.  

   
 

The next time Stiles regained a bit of lucidity, he was confused. A head covered in dark hair was kneeling in front of him, holding his arm. Doing _something_ to his arm. He jerked back. The head looked up at him. 

“Stiles?” 

He noticed the clothes on his body. No longer wet but also, not his. Stiles recalled vague, Derek-shaped memories.

He let out a breath. “Derek…” 

The man got up from his position and sat on the couch next to Stiles. The wounds on his arms were clean, half covered in some kind of antiseptic. 

“You scared me. That doesn’t happen very often.” He reached for the teen’s arm; his movements slow. Stiles adjusted his body and Derek continued his work. The pills still circulating in his blood stream made his arousal levels too low for embarrassment.

Stiles weakly smiled, just a small quirk at the corner of his lips. “Lucky me, then. To make it on the list of ‘things that have scared Derek Hale’.” 

Despite the situation, Stiles caught the slightest twitch on Derek’s face. The man liked to pretend he had no sense of humor. 

Growing somber, Stiles continued. “I’m really sorry. About all of this. And you didn’t have to do anything to help me and I appreciate it.” He slurred out, free hand jerking as he talked. His movements lacked their usual spastic energy. 

“Stiles. It’s fine. I’m… glad you called me. You needed help. I get it.” Stiles bit his lip. “And you don’t have to talk right now. Or explain. It wouldn’t matter anyway because I can barely understand you.” 

The teen choked on the laugh threatening to spill forth. Derek looked up at him, face neutral but eyes smiling. 

“You’ve been out of it for-” Derek looked at the cable box parallel to the couch. Stiles couldn’t make out the numbers. “-almost two hours now. I lead you in here and you passed out. I found some dry clothes and helped-” 

Stiles halfheartedly groaned. A barely-there smile replaced Derek’s usual frown.

“Relax. You did it all by yourself. I _did_ have to explain what the clothes were for, which took five minutes, by the way. You more or less figured out what I was saying and got dressed. I just stood outside the door in case you fell.” Derek raised his eyebrows and smiled as he said “This is fortunate for me because now I have a stock pile of things to embarrass you with.” 

“Thanks, Derek,” Stiles replied, sarcastic smirk on his lips. Blinking did nothing to dispel the heaviness keeping his eyes from staying open. 

Derek looked back down. A cotton swab gently ran over the cuts. 

“Some of these needed stitches,” Derek noted, “but it’s been too long.” There was something in the man’s voice he didn’t recognize. Stiles quickly let that line of query go because he lacked the capacity to take apart and examine his own words; much less someone else’s. 

The blissful warmth was pooling in his stomach. Rubbing between his toes and fingers. 

“You’ve been doing this for a while, huh?” 

Stiles nodded, not completely registering the question asked. 

Derek’s hand paused. “Stiles, I’m-  sorry. You’re so…you sound OK. When you argue or laugh or talk. I didn’t know.” 

Stiles swallowed. The lump in his throat was back. “I’m OK.” Derek gave him a look. “Maybe not OK, but I’m surviving.” 

The hands grabbed a roll of gauze from an open first aid kit on the coffee table. 

“Surviving? Yeah. But living? I don’t think this qualifies.” 

Stiles didn’t respond. The euphoria was spreading to his brain. He could feel it resting behind his eyes. 

Derek looked at the teen and sighed. One hand pushed the hair back from his youthful face. It was soft under his fingers. 

 

 

He was floating. The darkness encasing him formed a womb of weightlessness.

Claudia was a shimmering light. A warm glow mesmerizing his unfocused eyes. 

His mother talked. Her smile caused an ache of familiarity in his chest.

Her arms stretched out; inviting him. An invitation promising to reunite them.

He tried to reach. To grasp her hands. To enter that place where the living weren’t welcome.

Arms curled around his torso. The hard, corded muscles prevented his ascent. 

His mother began crying. Yelling for him to join her.

The emotions surrounded him. She had no voice. Her feelings became language; one only he understood.

“Please, my son! Reach me! Fight it!”

The arms tightened. He thrashed like a rapid animal. He screamed for his mother.

Tears rolled down her cheeks. A look of pain twisted her features.

“You can’t join me yet.”

_No, mom, please. I love you._

She lowered her arms, wrapping the graceful limbs around her torso.

“Not now, my lovely Genim. But soon. You’ll be with me soon.”

His cries intensified. He ached to hear the cursed name pass her lips again.

_Don’t leave!_

The arms held him down.

His mother was gone.

He was alone in the darkness.

 

 

The body in Derek’s arms grew limp. A sigh escaped the bruised lips. 

Stiles’ back fit snuggly against Derek’s chest. The man loosened his arms and shifted both legs. No longer was he applying full force; now he tenderly bracketed the teen’s slim body. He was the only thing keeping him upright.

The older male leaned down, forehead resting against Stiles’ neck. He allowed an exhale.

What had gone wrong? 

He’d noticed the sickly pallor of Stiles’ complexion and moved him to the bathroom.

The sound of his pained retching stabbed at Derek. Each strained heave drove a knife through his heart.

He’d wiped Stiles’ face and put a comforting hand on the thin, shuddering back. That was the wrong move. But hindsight was always 20/20. 

The teen lashed out at his touch. Kicking and screaming. He restrained him; the struggle threatened Stiles’ own safety more than Derek’s. The coach would be OK from a hit to the jaw. Stiles would be considerably less so, if his head connected with the wall his body was slowly backing into.

He held the teen. Stiles continued crying and begging. Not to Derek. To someone unseen.

He was so calm now. His slack body merely sleeping.

Derek let his lips brush the pale skin of Stiles’ neck.

 

 

“You must be some kind of high person whisperer,” Stiles noted, voice breaking the silence. Derek sat in a comfy looking arm chair by the bed the teen inhabited. The dark blue sheets were smooth under his hands. He didn’t remember moving from the couch. 

Derek shut the open book on his lap. Stiles didn’t catch the title. 

The older male ran a hand through his perfectly mussed hair. “I think you’re right.” After a pause, “How do you feel?”  

Stiles warily sat up. His bruised torso protested loudly. “Like crap.” 

Derek lips twitched. He nodded. “Not surprising.” 

Stiles noticed the light coming through the large, translucent windows on the brick wall. He cleared his throat, ridding his voice of the gravelly rasp. “What time is it?” 

Derek pulled out his phone. “Well, it’s nine seventeen in the morning. You’ve been asleep-” 

Stiles was _very_ awake now. “Fu-”, he reworded, “-freak. It’s Friday. I need to be at school. And you’re a teacher. You _really_ need to be at school.” 

“Stiles, it’s fine. I called in sick. And your dad called in for you because when I asked the school about you going, the ‘pleasant’ attendance woman said, ‘Stiles won’t be here today’. So everything’s fine.” 

Stiles nodded and let out a breath. “Well, then I need to go home and…talk to my dad.” 

The coach rubbed a hand over the stubble of his jaw. “I’m not going to just drop you off at a place where you will be hurt.” 

“Derek-” 

“Intentionally.” 

“OK, yeah. I underst-” 

“By a trusted adult.”

Stiles licked his lips. Derek’s eyes followed the movement. 

“Derek, I understand this. But last night was the first time he got physical. It’s- he’s never this bad. I just said some stuff and he got mad. I shouldn’t have-” 

He raised an eyebrow. “You sound like a battered house wife,” Derek countered. No humor in his words. 

Stiles gave him a look; lips pursed, eyes narrowed. “I can handle it.” He continued, shifting the attention. Normalizing his living situation. “We’re all in our private traps, clamped in them, and none of us can ever get out.”

The older male scoffed at Stiles’ reference. “OK, _Norman.”_ He returned the look Stiles was shooting his way. 

They were at an impasse; neither willing to bend the other’s way.

The man closed his eyes a moment later. A breath pushed past his lips. “If a student comes to me with information about a dangerous living situation, I’m supposed to contact the police-” 

“My dad _runs_ the police, Derek. He went drunk driving last night. No one even pulled him over. Who would? He’s the sheriff.” Stiles swallowed. “Besides, he’s usually not violent.” 

A synapse was created after the first few times his mother mistreated him (not ‘abused’. Stiles refused to say that. She was just… scared. And confused. She never meant to hurt him). 

For every angry word, an ‘I love you’ and ‘I’m sorry’ followed. For every punch, a hug. For every meal taken away, a trip to the ice cream parlor. 

From a young age, Stiles was conditioned (however unintentionally) to believe love could not exist without violence. The sheriff further solidified that belief after Claudia left.

“It shouldn’t be like this. You shouldn’t be OK with this.” 

His throat felt tight. Why did Derek have to be so incessant on caring for him?

The floor-to-ceiling windows shattered in a grand display of spider webbed glass. Water flooded the room. The man sitting on the chair and the teen leaning against the headboard were enveloped in the crystalline fluid. A cocoon of cold and wet.  

Derek sensed the change in mood. He stood and his legs carried him to the side of the bed. 

“Look at me.” 

The teen’s eyes were shut. Head bowed. 

Derek lifted his hand, hesitating to provide the comfort he so desperately wanted to give but unsure how it would be received. The teen’s earlier episode stopped him. He lowered his hand. 

“Stiles.” The teen gave no indication of hearing him. “Please,” he said, voice quiet.

Stiles raised his head. Honey colored eyes red-rimmed. He looked incredibly fragile. The split lip and bruised face made him look like the child born into an unloving home that he was. Stiles seemed so much younger. More vulnerable. 

Derek sat down on the edge next to Stiles’ thigh, daring at least some physical contact. “Listen, I want to help you. I don’t know how I’m going to do that yet. But. I will help. I promise you.” 

Stiles nodded. Then smiled. An illusion of happiness. Both knew what it really meant. An action to keep him from breaking. Keep his mask from cracking. 

He wasn’t breathing. He was drowning.  

Derek placed a large hand over Stiles’. To comfort the teen. Or maybe to comfort himself. 

“I…don’t even know why you want to help. I mean, I thought you hated me…,” he confessed quietly. 

His tone tore at Derek’s emotionless exterior. He sounded so… _confused._ Like he wasn’t worth the effort of helping. And the thought of hating him caused an ache in the man’s chest. He had never hated Stiles. 

“I’m not good with words,” he said by way of explanation. He went on after an unimpressed look from Stiles. “I wanted to be a teacher when I was young. And then a coach later on. So I went through the schooling. But… things change from childhood. Dreams do. People do. I finished and I was so different from when I started.” There was something in his words. And in the way he said them. “I don’t always know what’s considered ‘appropriate’ social behavior,” he admitted with a bitter twist to his lips and a self-deprecating tone. “I don’t care what people think. If they say I’m mean, I don’t care. Which is a problem now that I’m coaching teenagers.” He squeezed the thin hand. “I think you’re a pretty cool kid. Socially inept person over here doesn’t know the right words. A lot of things come out overly aggressive. But I want you to believe me when I say I’m going to help. And this,” he used his hold on Stiles’ hand to turn over the skinny arm. Impressions from the bandages pushed against the maroon sleeve, “isn’t helping as much as you think it is.” 

Stiles looked at the water surrounding them. He could feel the cold. He could see everything from behind a transparent looking glass. And with that small bit of contact, he could breath. He looked at the hand. Then, at Derek’s face. 

He took a deep breath in. 

Everything around him was in complete chaos and Stiles was fine. 

With Derek, he was fine. 

 

“You need to eat something.” 

Stiles sat at the kitchen table. Derek leaned against a counter, arms crossed. He was a solid wall of muscle, trying to intimidate Stiles. A week ago he might’ve been running out the door and wetting himself in fear but now, _now_ , Stiles knew about his hidden, squishy center.

He shrugged. “I’m just not hungry.” 

Derek was an unmovable force meeting an unstoppable one. They’d been going back and forth since their arrival to the kitchen.

Derek looked at him. “When was the last time you ate?” 

It probably wasn’t healthy how long the teen had to think. The Oreos from the previous morning didn’t count. 

The older male sensed Stiles’ strain to remember. He nodded, taking the silence as an answer, and turned towards the fridge. Derek ducked his head to hide the smile planted on his lips.  

“Are eggs and pancakes OK?” 

Stiles glared a hole through Derek’s back as he acquiesced. The man had won this time. 

The kitchen filled with the sounds of Derek moving around. He declined the teen’s offer to help cook. 

Stiles’ curiosity scratched at him the way cats did at doors when they wanted to be let out. “Out of all the places in the world, why did you choose Beacon Hills to teach at?” 

He cracked two eggs into a brown bowl, answering: “I used to live here a long time ago. There’s still some property on the reserve in my family’s name, actually. I moved to New York with my sister when I was sixteen and went to college there. She…always wanted to come back here. It was her plan to drag us back when I finished school. And I knew it was something my parents would’ve wanted, too. So I moved here after taking a year off and got the coaching position.” 

Stiles nodded; he recognized something in the man. Something he recognized in himself. 

“The way you talk about your family. Are they…?” 

Derek was whisking the eggs with a fork. His hand paused. Stiles mentally face palmed. 

“Sorry. I mean- you don’t have to tell me. Forget I said anything.” 

The whisking continued. “My family died in a fire when I was fifteen. There was a reunion. The heater in the basement malfunctioned and everyone was gone by the time fire rescue came. Laura and I were getting ice in town.” 

Stiles’ stomach sank. He didn’t feel any pleasure in correctly guessing the death of the man’s family. 

Derek sounded cold. Detached. “Laura took me to the city. She was only a couple years older but she refused to be separated from her little brother.” Her ‘only’ brother, Stiles interpreted. “I lost her my second year in college. Her and a guy she’d been dating were in a car crash. I was told they both died on impact.” Derek clenched his jaw. The muscles in his cheek tightened. “I hear it a lot, like dying quickly is supposed to make her death easier for me to handle. I don’t know if that’s true.” 

Stiles moved with feather-light steps from the table. He reached past the coach, brushing lightly against his shoulder and hand. Derek stared. He grabbed the pancake mix and withdrew his arm.

“I know sorry doesn’t help. Like, at all. But I am. Sorry, I mean,” Stiles said, reading the needed ingredients for the mix.

Derek blinked, eyes trained on the teen who was pointedly not looking up. “It’s fine… maybe not ‘fine’ but it doesn’t hurt as much as it used to.”

Stiles’ lips quirked in a bitter sweet smile. “The ones that love us never really leave us,” he quoted softly. 

The older male nodded; the knots in his chest loosening. Stiles bumped Derek’s shoulder as the man continued staring. He began pouring the bag into a clear bowl, smile growing.

Derek gently bumped the teen back. Making a conscious effort to keep in mind that no matter how strong Stiles talked, he was fragile. More fragile than the teen liked to admit.

 

Stiles was finally understanding the enigma that was his coach. How the caring and sweet child he used to be was killed in that house, dying alongside his family. And when Laura left him, his only remaining connection from how life used to be, he shut down. The man forced everyone out. Better to cut them off and feel nothing than lose them and feel sad.

Stiles didn’t completely believe the ‘old’ Derek was dead. He must’ve been in there somewhere. No completely hardened person with zero emotional attachments and an obvious anger problem would take care of a random, hyperactive teenager. Derek didn’t like to believe it but part of him survived the loss of his entire family.

 

The food was done ten minutes later. Derek put three pancakes on Stiles’ plate and was starting to add the eggs. The teen looked from the pancakes to the face of his coach.

“I only want one,” Stiles said, interrupting the spatula full of eggs trying to find their way to his plate. 

“I’m giving you three,” the man responded matter-of-factly.

“I guess you’ll be wasting two pancakes, then.”

Derek made a noise deep in his chest. Stiles wasn’t imagining it during the phone call; the man had growled. He heard it on the lacrosse field sometimes but assumed it was allergies or something. And that _really_ appealed to Stiles more than it should’ve. _Derek’s growl has awakened something in me._

Derek knew if he pushed hard enough, he could get Stiles to eat the food. Just a few choice words… he thought better of it. Stiles masked his feelings with sarcasm and banter. The older male could see through it now; if one more thing happened, Stiles would break. He would shatter and there might not be any way to put the pieces back together. 

He removed the two pancakes.

 

Watching Stiles eat was…interesting. First, he insisted putting ketch up on his eggs.

“Derek, you seriously don’t know what you’re missing,” Stiles had said, squeezing the red condiment onto the food. By way of answer, the older man made a gagging sound and bit back a laugh when Stiles glared.

Derek watched the mess of processed tomato-and-egg mixture slowly move around the teen’s plate. The bites he took were small. His pancake cut in tiny triangles. After every bite, he took a drink. Almost as if the food had to be forced down like a particularly nasty pill. His animated talking almost distracted Derek from the spectacle of him eating. His flailing gestures and facial expressions were endearing and entertaining in their own way but the man had never seen Stiles eat before and it was proving to be quite the fascinating experience. 

The shared meal went on like that. Stiles excitedly engaged in a conversation with Derek, who wasn’t actually hearing his words. He’d been giving one word answers or nodding at what seemed appropriate moments. Words were confusing and full of half-truths. Unconscious actions and mannerisms always told the truth.

Tiny bite. Talk. Flourish with hands. Take a drink long enough after the bite as to not look suspicious. Push the food around the plate. More gestures and animated talking.

 

Stiles managed half a pancake and all the eggs. Derek didn’t press for more; the teen looked sick just from eating that. He handed him three ibuprofen, not missing the way he choked down a hiss whenever he moved. The skinny teen looked grateful.

Something occurred to Derek as they stood side by side over the sink, washing the morning’s dishes. Stiles insisted on helping. Derek knew he wanted to somehow repay him and his first thought was to call him out. Tell him he didn’t have to make it up to him but he caught the words before they left his mouth. That would make Stiles… not happy. And Derek felt something tighten in his stomach at the thought of Stiles not happy.

Stiles dried the plate Derek handed to him. He seemed…anxious. His hand kept coming to rest on his flat stomach, tensely rubbing. He’d catch himself and forcibly remove the limb. The teen was practically vibrating with nervous energy. Derek watched him lick his lips and dry a cup. Put the cup down and crack his knuckles. 

Something clicked in the older male’s mind.

The malnourished state of the teen’s body. The way he looked ready to run when Derek first mentioned eating. The way he broke up his food. And now, Derek noticed the way his eyes darted to the door he’d told him was the bathroom. 

He gripped the edge of the sink with one hand.

“Derek?”

The man in question turned to regard Stiles. His eyes expressed their usual inquisition. Derek turned off the tap and rubbed at his heavily stubbled chin.

“I’ll do the rest later. Right now, sitting down sounds like a good idea,” he explained. 

He could feel the teen behind him as they walked to the couch. Derek sat down, pretending not to notice the way Stiles fidgeted before taking a seat at the opposite end. He threw the remote to the teen, who comedically fumbled it before getting a firm grasp. Derek would have smiled but his realization sucked the humor from his mind. It wasn’t right; a boy that amazing suffering so much. Suffering to the point of abusing his own body.

Derek relaxed into the cushions. “You pick something.”

 

He must’ve dozed because when he opened his eyes, Stiles was closer than before. Not by much. It looked like the involuntary sort of migration that happened when something took up your full attention. His gangly limbs were spread; more comfort revealed in his unintentional sprawl. Derek continued his secret observations for another minute, enjoying how calm he seemed. Even the fingers tapping out a song only he heard lacked his earlier, frantic energy. 

Derek breathed in deeply and sat up straighter, ‘waking up’ loud enough for Stiles to have some warning. 

He rubbed at his face and when he spoke; his voice was rough from disuse. “What are you watching?”

Derek felt him tense briefly. The teen was in panic mode at all the wrong times. 

“Oh uh, it’s a show about upcoming video game releases and pop culture and- I can change it if you want…” he said, grabbing the remote.

Derek shook his head. “No, it’s fine. We can watch this.”

Stiles looked disbelieving and put the remote between them, just in case.

“ _So Kristin, what do you think about_ Advanced Warfare: _The upcoming release in the_ Call of Duty _franchise?”_

‘Kristin Adams’ went on to sing her venerations after viewing a short interview with one of the game’s developers. Derek rolled his eyes. His disdain must’ve slipped out in the breath he took because he felt Stiles’ eyes on him.

“Not a fan?” He asked with a smile.

Derek’s elbow was planted in the arm of the couch, other hand on his thigh. He shrugged.

Now it was Stiles’ turn to roll his eyes. “A shrug? Well, that’s a lovely opinion, Derek. Good talk.”

Derek hid a smile in the fist pressed to his face. “I’m not into the whole ‘plot be damned, let’s just shoot everything’ type of game.”

 “You’re kidding. Those games are my life.”

Derek looked at him, expression unimpressed.

“Oh my gosh, you’re serious.” Stiles pressed a hand to his heart.  “I’m having a coronary.”

“You’re ridiculous,” he commented, working to keep any amusement off his face.

Stiles made an aborted hand motion, stopping his body from inching forward. “Derek, you don’t play those games for the plot. You’re missing the point!”

The older male turned his body slightly, dropping the arm he’d been supporting his head with. He needed his full attention on the teen in front of him; he provided more entertainment than the TV, anyway. How could this damaged teenager sound so happy? Clearly, he wasn’t. A happy person doesn’t self-mutilate or starve their body or OD on drugs. But when he talked like this, it was easy to forget. It was easy to be pulled into his gravitating cheer.

“Obviously I am,” Derek said, the purposely obtuse edge in his words impossible to miss.

“Obviously,” Stiles repeated; his voice an octave lower. He mimicked the Coach’s trademark scowl and the man suddenly knew why Stiles’ contact name in Scott’s phone was ‘The World’s Worst Derek Hale Impersonator’, (the squeamish look his first string sported was impressive as Derek read Stiles’ title out loud. The Coach actually had to consciously keep the frown on his face). The teen’s features weren’t meant for scowling; instead of striking fear, Derek found it kind of…not ‘cute’. But…‘endearing’. Yes. ‘Endearing’ described it perfectly. 

Stiles sighed and shook his head when Derek’s expression remained impassive. His twitching lips betrayed the stoney countenance.

“There’s no hope for you. If you don’t understand the point of games with mindless violence…” Stiles shrugged in a ‘ _what can you do?’_ way.

Derek’s default expression was pissed off (‘resting bitch face’, Laura had called it affectionately). He only joked or smiled when biting sarcasm and smug words followed. Stiles, skinny, defenseless Stiles, however, was making him grin and chuckle like it was second nature.

He cocked an eyebrow, letting some of his joyful amusement slip through. Derek replied seamlessly, “And the ‘point’ being there is no ‘point’.”

“Exactly! You’re catching on!” Stiles said, knowing full well Derek was mocking him. Taking it all in stride.

The older male huffed in exasperation but said nothing else. 

The two women, who were annoyingly fake in Derek’s opinion, went on to discuss the highest reviewed movies. He tuned most of it out, choosing instead to watch his temporary ward. Stiles chewed his lips, an action that was more…erotic than it should’ve been. Derek had to tears his eyes away.

“ _I can’t believe you haven’t seen_ The Hobbit _yet, Sara!”_

Stiles’ fingers tapped a pattern on the cushion.

 _“It’s better than all of_ The Lord of The Rings _combined.”_

The teen swiveled his head, staring at Derek’s unguarded look of disgust. Stiles tipped his head slightly in questioning.

Derek put on his best look of sorrowful acceptance, shaking his head. “I can’t blame you for having bad tastes, if these types of things pass as ‘good’ now. This generation has been conditioned from a young age to enjoy,” he put a lazy hand up, gesturing to the TV, “this.”

 He regretted the words as they left his mouth. Stiles only latched onto one thing in the man’s statement and the grin spreading across his face was the epitome of mischief.

“I’m so sorry, you _very_ wise, _very_ _old_ man. It must be frustrating seeing today’s youth suckling at the teat of modern media. I can only imagine what it must feel like: seeing a true cinematic masterpiece like _The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari_ when it was first released, only to watch as humanity regresses and now passes off ‘trash’ as entertainment. You poor, poor grandpa,” Stiles deadpanned. 

Derek lost it. His scoff of surprised humor turned into a chuckle that bubbled from his stomach and morphed into a laugh once it reached his chest.

He contained himself quickly. Stiles’ face was a mixture of pleasant shock and truimph.

“I knew it. I knew once I said that you’d bring out the old jokes.”

Stiles shrugged; the joyful tone of his voice easily filtering through. “Hey, you’re the one who works with high schoolers on the daily. Prepare accordingly.” 

Derek kept the easy smile on his face. He ran a hand through his hair. “Wow. So _The Cabinet,_ huh? I went to see it in 1920 when it came out…? I don’t remember that; I must be going senile. My memory is finally failing.”

Stiles laughed. “You’re pretty attractive for being over ninety years old,” he added, turning back to the screen.

Derek allowed another laugh. Almost losing control a second time as Stiles realized the innuendo and the tips of his ears turned pink. He blushed unevenly. Blotches of red colored the teen’s cheek bones, adding pigment to the pale skin. 

Derek wanted to quip, “ _So you think I'm attractive_ _?”_ , but it sounded like something a twenty six year old teacher should not be saying to his sixteen year old student. Maybe he’d already surpassed what was ‘appropriate’ behavior. Texting him, taking him to his house, giving him clothes (the pants were too baggy and the tee and maroon sweat shirt were laughably big on him). 

Stiles focused on the screen, ignoring the air of amusement coming from Derek’s side of the couch.

 

The threat created by his eventual need to return home loomed over Stiles. Maybe Derek had the same dread. If he did, he was ignoring it. 

When three o’ clock rolled around, the older man sighed. His reluctance was evident. 

Stiles changed into his own clothes (thanking Derek for washing them) and spent another minute trying to turn his phone on. He told himself it was just out of battery and not permanently damaged from the rain.

 

“I don’t like this,” Derek growled. He was taking corners at a much higher speed than Stiles found tasteful.

“Well, there’s not really a great wealth of options,” he replied. The muscles in Derek’s cheek tensed. Stiles lightened his tone. “I doubt he’ll even be home.”

The older male flicked his eyes briefly over Stiles’ face. He turned back to the road and tilted his head, raising an eyebrow as he did. A caustic sting of displeasure that darkened his features.

“You don’t know that, Stiles. What if he’s waiting for you? You’re just going to walk in there? You don’t even know if he’s still raging,” he growled, a sharp edge in his voice. He exhaled, breathing out some of his anger. “When he… gets like this, what happens after? What happens when he calms down?”

Stiles chewed his lip, stopping when his teeth bit too harshly into the cut. “Nothing. Things just continue.” He shrugged. A dejected sag remained in his shoulders; the prospect of facing his father quickly bringing back the negative feelings he’d staved off at Derek’s loft. “Like nothing ever happened,” he added.

Derek’s heart seized in his chest. He was Stiles’ age when everyone died. He wasn’t alone, though. Laura was there. She helped him battle the grief hanging in the back of his mind like a dark cloud. She helped the scars on his psyche fade. Scars from after the fire. He changed and things would never be the same. His older sister accepted that gracefully. They were so young and yet, the two remaining Hales got through it. Together.

Stiles was alone.  

Derek had Laura to make things bearable. To make every sleepless night less painful. 

Stiles had no one. His only remaining parent was a force to be feared instead of relied on.  

The older man’s defeated exhalation was loud in the silence of the car. 

“So he won’t still be angry when we get there?” He asked, stopping at a red light. 

The man turned to Stiles, who absentmindedly shuffled his phone between long and thin fingers. The pale skin of his face was marred by the dark smudges under his eyes and bruised jaw. His doe-eyes and dotting of moles added a child-like vulnerability. Coupled with his cut lip, the teen looked breakable. 

But maybe he’d already been broken. Dropped too many times and glued back together with pieces that don’t fit quite right. Sharp edges and jagged lines damaging the once-smooth glass.

He pushed at his brown hair; uncertainty in every movement. “Probably. Maybe.” His voice quieted. “I don’t know.”

The man was leading a lamb to the slaughter. Their destination wasn’t Stiles’ house, it was his grave. 

Derek fell silent.

 

Ten minutes passed. He parked next to Stiles’ Jeep in front of the unassuming house; displeasure apparent at the sight of a police cruiser in the driveway. 

The man unfastened his seat belt. Stiles looked at him in confusion.

“I’m not just going to dump you somewhere and drive off. I can at least walk you to the door.”

The older male made to get out but Stiles rested one pale hand on Derek’s bicep. He removed it once his coach settled back down.

“Derek, you have this ‘murder’ vibe rolling off of you. And while I’m flattered you’re concerned for my wellbeing; please remember first degree murder, _especially of a police officer,_ will get you life in jail. That means no parole. And if they can prove it was premeditated, that’s the death penalty.”

“The thought hadn’t even crossed my mind,” Derek deadpanned. The monotone quality of his voice telling Stiles, ‘ _Yes. I have thought about killing your father. Many times in the last twenty hours’_.

“Yeah. Whatever,” Stiles scoffed, climbing out of the car.

 

The living wall of muscle fell into step behind him. The man radiated anger. Anger that was just going to stew because the subject was untouchable.

 

Derek grabbed one thin wrist, stopping the teen a foot from the door. “Stiles, I don’t like this.” More emotion bled through than attended. Stiles’ mouth was open, ready to form a retort, but he closed it.  “Call me _before_ anything happens. I don’t care what time.” The man’s eyes were searching, gaze stopping at the cupid’s bow lips. “You’re not alone. I’m here. OK?”

 

Stiles nodded, adams apple bobbing as he swallowed. His face heated as he becameaware of the rapidly increasing proximity and the strong hand engulfing his wrist. “Thank you, Derek. For everything,” his voice dripping gratitude, eyes moving from the warm hand to Derek’s face.

 

Stiles’ cheeks were flushed. His lips were red and shiny from his nervous habit of licking and biting. He looked up at the man, so expecting. Whiskey eyes impossibly big. He was waiting for Derek to speak…He didn’t know what to say. All words fled his mind. The wrist clenched in his hand became tense. Derek rubbed his thumb over the cold skin. He used his grip to lift the teen’s arm. 

 

Stiles furrowed his brow and looked up from their interlocked limbs. He began to ask something or maybe make a joke but the expression on Derek’s face killed his train of thought. The man looked so… _open._ His guarded expression was replaced with untainted emotion. Green eyes projecting something else… _desire._ Stiles moved forward slow enough to give Derek an opportunity to pull back if he wanted to. 

 

He didn’t.

 

Stiles’ lips gently met the other’s, timidly angling his head upwards. The man felt rough under his mouth.

 

Derek sighed into the kiss. His tongue lightly ghosted over the soft lips.

 

Hands encircled Stiles’ waist. He smiled against the older male’s mouth. 

 

Loud footsteps from inside had them pulling apart. The sheriff opened the door, face lighting up when he saw his son. Stiles hoped he didn’t look as wrecked as he felt.

Derek cleared his throat. “I’ll see you Monday,” he told Stiles. He nodded to the sheriff and walked off the steps.

John’s confusion towards the older man was overshadowed with relief a moment later. His features softened. 

“Son-” His father stepped forward and pulled him into a hug. He kissed his hair, squeezing too tightly.

“Oh God, Stiles, I’m so sorry.”

He patted his father’s arm. “It’s OK, dad.” 

Stiles distantly registered Derek’s Camaro roaring to life as the sheriff pulled him into the house. One arm thrown across his skinny shoulders.

“Where have you been?” He asked, a tinge of nervousness in his voice.

The teen threw a thumb behind him in a sloppy motion. “I called the Coach and he picked me up at the park.”

His dad stopped their trek in the kitchen. The sheriff’s hand tightened on Stiles’ shoulder.

“I was worried. You weren’t answering your phone. I-I called the school. And Stiles-I’m really sorry. I was so angry and I couldn’t control myself. But I love you. You know that, right? I would never hurt you on purpose.” The hand moved from his boney shoulder to his bruised face.

Stiles nodded. Swallowed. And slowly, he smiled. “Yeah, dad, I know. You don’t mean to. It’s fine. _I’m_ fine.” 

John smiled and clapped his hands together. No guilt remained. If Stiles said it was fine, then it was. 

“Are you hungry? I can make something-” He asked, turning to the refrigerator.

Stiles shook his head. “I already ate. I’m really tired so I think I’ll just take a nap.”

His dad turned to him. He nodded. 

“OK, buddy. I’m down here if you need me.”

Stiles smiled and walked from the kitchen. Face falling as he made his way up the stairs. 

The door to his room was open but the contents looked untouched. He closed the door.

His stomach hurt. And his ribs. And his face. Everything hurt, actually. The pain killers Derek had given him were not strong enough for the colossal ache in his body.

He lifted his tee; suddenly missing Derek’s warm sweat shirt. 

His torso was a mess.

The marks were a motley collection of blue and dark purple. Within a few days, depending on the severity, they would turn yellow or green. The blows to his body caused his capillaries to burst and trap blood under the skin. The hemoglobin in the erythrocytes would break down, turning the colors. By then, they wouldn’t hurt. He just had to make it to that point. 

He continued staring at his chest. Maybe he had some kind of iron deficiency. Was bruising supposed to be that severe? 

….Arms firmly restraining him filled his memory. His screams. His cries. The attack resurfaced from Stiles’ abyss of forgotten things. _I cried in front of Derek freaking Hale._ That warm body pressed to his. _Why do I have to remember this after I already kissed him?_ He begged for his mom while Derek held him. _Oh my fuck. How could he witness that and still stomach kissing me?_ The realization that Derek had caused his bruising to worsen didn’t bother Stiles. He _was_ bothered by the man having seen his episode.

He could count his ribs. Or at least, the first seven pairs. The ‘true’ ribs. The last ten were just under the surface. The voices in his head told him it wasn’t enough.

 _When_ will _it be enough? When you can see every bone in your body? When it gets so bad you need a feeding tube? Or when you’re dead?_ His rational mind questioned. _Don’t you see? You will_ never _have enough._

He kicked aside the towel. The blood had turned a rusty color. The stain would never come out but he was fairly adept at the art of hiding messes from a parent so he could make something work. 

 

Stiles sat heavily on the bed. Two hands moved to his hair. 

They had kissed on his porch like some cheesy scene in a bad rom-com. 

He was baffled by Derek. By the man’s behavior. By his words.

 

The ‘deal with later’ box was getting a new addition: everything that happened in the last twenty hours, i.e. Derek Hale.

At least the flood hadn’t taken him away. He could definitely go without that.

 

Stiles leaned back, focusing on the ceiling.

Rain pelted his window. _You’ve got to be kidding me._ Water started soaking through the carpet. _The world can just go fuck itself because I am not in the mood._ His legs dangled off the bed; the cold fluid sent chills up his spine.

He took a shaky breath in. There really was no rest for the wicked.

 

 

 **Norman Bates:** I think that we we’re all in our private traps, clamped in them, and none of us can ever get out.

 **Marion Crane:** Sometimes…we deliberately step into those traps.

 **Norman Bates:** I was born into mine. I don’t mind it anymore.

 **Marion Crane:** Oh, but you should. You should mind it.

 **Norman Bates:** Oh, I do…But I say that I don’t.

 


	5. But never doubt I love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Relationships are hard.  
> Relationships between a teacher and a mentally-unhealthy teenager are even harder. 
> 
> But they'll make it work. 
> 
> Right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *hasn't updated in over a month even though I said it'd only be a two weeks*  
> Well, this is awkward.  
> Let's just all move past my inability to update regularly. And please remember that if someone is able to write a story containing these themes...it probably means said person is struggling with them in real life. 
> 
> This chapter is a long one- 12k words.  
> Enjoyyyyy.  
> It does contain a little time jump. 
> 
> This is kind of a dissociative chapter, I guess.  
> Skips around a bit.  
> Ya know, I have to set up for the *fabulous* ending, right? 
> 
> Thanks for being patient with me. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy? like?...don't absolutely hate...? this scattered, disorganized mess with too many metaphors  
> ('We get it, Chloe. Stiles is depressed. There's no need to flood a room every hour.  
> Wait, Derek has a storm-cloud-of-negativity following him around now?  
> And what's this about a rejection tree growing in Stiles' body?  
> ...That's fucked up, mate'). 
> 
> Oh, and the reader this week whose review spurred me into action was stilesismyanchor. Let's all give a clap to the beautiful person who gave me the will. 
> 
> (If you were wondering why it takes so long, here's your answer:  
> I'm a perfectionist and tweaking a chapter takes for~ever). 
> 
> And I'll 'explain' the crappy formatting in the end notes (I really am sorry, I know it looks bad). 
> 
> Meet you at the End Notes!!

 

Stiles blindly felt for his phone, one arm tossed out while the rest of him remained under a mound of pillows and thick comforters. He’d been between dreaming and wakeful awareness when the loud reverberations of metal-on-wood brought him to a semiconscious state. New message. Derek.  

          Are you awake? 

 The screen read eleven thirteen at night. Stiles grasped at alertness but it was a slippery little thing. He typed with slow fingers. 

            Yeah 

 Derek’s reply was quick to the point where Stiles could practically _feel_ the man’s eager-anxiety. 

            I want to apologize for earlier. 

His brows furrowed. Apologize for what? 

Oh.  _That._

He was too tired to be having this conversation. _Great and powerful Mephistopheles, I offer myself to you in exchange for an escape. You can make my soul your bitch or whatever it is you do, just spare me._ Unfortunately, Faust legends weren’t going to save him. He took a breath and responded _._  

            I made the first move. You don’t have to apologize. 

Stiles had predicted it. 

Derek was going to nope-the-fuck-out as soon as he realized who exactly he’d kissed. _And now my ‘Self-Esteem Points’ are in the negatives._  

            Stiles…I like you but we can’t. I’m you teacher. 

The teen nodded at his phone, lips pursed. 

Of fucking course. 

Derek-I have the emotional tendencies of a ten year old-Hale just pulled the ‘it’s not you, it’s me’. 

Stiles laughed. A sharp exhale devoid of humor. His usual edge of cheerful sarcasm gave way to something bitter. Something dark. 

Even Derek had to possess enough social skills to realize that _maybe_ sending regret-texts to the teen he made out with wasn’t the best course of action. Stiles’ response was clipped to further exemplify ‘hey, you probably shouldn’t have done this over the phone’.  

         I understand. 

He could imagine Derek sitting in bed, all ruffled and frustrated and embarrassed. It made a cute picture but the sinking feeling in his chest remained. 

          Come talk to me Monday before school. I’ll be in the locker room. 

   
Stiles didn’t reply. If Derek wanted to stew in his regret and guilt for a few days, so be it.  

While mostly expected, the rejection pooling in his stomach was not pleasant.   

The thought of talking face-to-face quickly turned the ‘not pleasant’ to ‘bone-searing dread’.  

   
Stiles swung both feet over the blanketed side of his bed.  He was wide awake now. 

   
The air conditioner’s soft hum greeted him as he stepped into the hall. 

It did little to dampen the encasing silence. 

He didn’t like the silence. 

   
He made his way downstairs. Water pooled at his ankles. Small ripples spanned across the liquid with every step. The splashes were almost soothing. Almost. 

It was rising past his calves. Stiles didn’t care. 

Maybe this was where he went numb. Where everything finally succeeded in wearing him down so he couldn’t feel anymore. The point where your emotions turn to grey static is when you’re too far gone. When you’re well and truly fucked. 

His bare feet padded across the living room floor. Cold skin on colder wood. 

There was a threatening stillness when he entered the kitchen. The ice maker’s crackling was explosive against the quiet backdrop. A note rested on the dining table. He made out John’s cursive writing. 

   
_Stiles,_  

 _I got called into work. You were sleeping. I’ll be home at 3pm tomorrow. Please eat something. Love you!_  

 _-Dad_  

…The man could’ve just texted him that ( _baby boomers and their unwillingness towards keeping up with the world.  Durr hburr technology is bad fire is scary and Thomas Edison was a witch)._  

Well, OK then. Looks like he was going to be by himself.  

Alone.  

No one else.  

   
The pipes groaned. Walls buckled around him and the inches of water burying his legs rose higher. It filled the space, submerging him in the cold wetness. 

He choked on an inhale. His open mouth was an opportunity for water to force itself in.  

His lungs filled. 

Stiles reached out for the table. A needed support to steady shaking legs.  

His vision blurred. The tears spilling from lack of oxygen were lost to the flood. 

   
“No…no…,” Stiles pleaded, sinking to his knees. 

   
His jaw clenched. _I’m not worth it. Not to anyone._  

He tasted something metallic. _And I just have to deal with that._  

A hand smoothed over his lip. Pale fingers came back streaked with red. Tears and blood rolled off his chin, mixing on the kitchen tile. 

   
Stiles huffed out a breath. Then, another. The ones that came next quickly turned into feverish inhales. 

Quiet amusement switched to howling laughter. His sides hurt from the force of breathing. 

 His mom, his dad, Scott, now Derek… 

 Stiles tangled a hand through sleep-mussed hair. 

A deep breath in. Another out. 

He stood on shaky legs. The refrigerator was a nearly impossible walk but he managed. Just like always. 

With a bottle of cold water and a determination to not pass the fuck out, Stiles walked back upstairs. The creak of floorboards grated on his nerves. 

He took a seat at the desk. Three Adderall were cushioned in his palm. Stiles wasn’t cliché enough to cut over pining and ‘he rejected me so I’m going to hurt myself’. 

But…it wasn’t just because of Derek.  It’d been a slow growing realization. 

Stiles had been a discardable human for the majority of his short life. 

He’d felt the gaping chasm of rejection.   

He was helpless against the desire to peer into it.  

And he lost pieces of himself every time he looked. That immense darkness took parts of anyone who dared gaze into its vast nothingness. 

His had a kind of deep-rooted rejection cultivated through the years by many different hands. 

His mother gave him the seed when he was six. She’d grown a tangle of vines. 

His father tended to the mass when Claudia left. The vines became a successful tree through his drunken words. 

Scott grew the buds in eighth grade. They bloomed into magnificent flowers during freshman year when Allison moved to town. 

The roots dug into his ribs and wrapped around his legs. They fed off his confidence and offered one thing in return: their voices. 

 _No one loves you._  

 _Even your own parents._  

 _Everyone leaves._  

He knew Derek and him would never be a thing.  But there’d been a small light. A tiny bit of hope. That’s what fucked him in the end. 

That little bit of hope. 

And when Derek had kissed him back, he’d thought maybe, just _maybe_ he was likable. Maybe everyone in his life was just an outlier and he was actually worth loving. Worth cherishing. And sticking around for. 

Stiles leaned back, eyes combing the ceiling.  Five hundred three. Five hundred four.  

   
He’d seen a counselor when he was young, before his mother’s death. A blonde woman with large teeth and orange scented candles. 

He’d hated her and her stupid ‘alternative’ techniques. 

EMDR. Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing. Seriously, eye movement helping panic attacks and ADHD? Yeah, right.  

“It’s ground breaking. And I think it’s the best way to deal with your problems.” Whatever-her-name could just shove it. He’d like to see anyone get through to him during one of his ‘bad’ episodes. To see someone try and convince him darting eye movements will make him better when he doesn’t even know what year it is. 

He’d overheard the woman and his parents, the latter not wanting to send Stiles there in the first place. 

“It’s a Hippocampal impairment,”she’d said; casting an accusing glance at the heavily medicated-Claudia, like his mother had personally seen to it that Stiles had inherited her problems. It wasn’t FTD ( _not yet,_ an unhelpful voice added) but those regions in his brain were…different. His mother’s neurologist, after insisting on a scan for Stiles, said nothing could be for certain until his brain was fully developed. So with that ‘hippocampal impairment’ jiggling around in there, he was bound to be a little unstable. 

He’d been forced through the counseling after Child Services was contacted. Multiple hospital visits, skiddish behavior, missing school…they’d caught on. He remembered his mother frantically shuffling around the house with tear stained cheeks. John sat him down and talked in quiet tones as his wife panicked. 

“You don’t want to be taken away, right?” 

Child-Stiles nodded, eyes wide. He loved them, even if mom broke his toys and left him locked in the closet sometimes.  

His father’s expression grew weary. “OK. Some people are going to ask you questions. I’m not telling you to lie. I’m just saying- it depends on your answers if you get to stay here with your mom and me.” 

Child-Stiles knew the implication. 

But apparently, despite Stiles’ sparkling report, having a mentally deteriorating parent and young child in the same home was grounds for a court ordered therapist with two mandatory sessions. That was around the time he stopped discussing his problems and feelings. Why speak if no one was listening? 

So, yeah. He wasn’t going to be the stereotypical teen who cut themselves over something a guy ultimately triggered. That didn’t mean he was above getting fucked up on some substances, though. 

   
Stimulants.  A gift to humanity.  

He’d taken the three Adderall and two of what-the-fuck-ever from Scott’s gift bag.  Stiles never said he learned from his mistakes. 

He jumped up after an hour, straightening his bedroom with manic energy. He saw everything.  

The dots on the ceiling. The dust swirling around the light on his desk. 

He _felt_ everything. Every heartbeat. Every pulse in the floor from his speakers. 

Stiles shouted the words. Anyone on the street would be able to hear but he didn’t give a damn. 

 _“I’ve got a migraine. And my pain will range from up down and sideways._  

 _Thank god it’s Friday,_  

 _‘cause Fridays will always be better than Sundays,_  

 _‘cause Sunday’s are my suicide days._  

 _I don’t know why they always seem so dismal._  

 _Thunderstorms, clouds, snow, and a slight drizzle._  

 _Whether it’s the weather or the letters by my bed,_  

 _Sometimes death seems better than the migraine in my head.”_    
  

He scratched at his arms. His nails dug into the thin shirt sleeves. 

  _“Let it be said what the headache represents._  

 _It’s me defending in suspense,_  

 _It’s me suspended in a defenseless test,_  

 _Being tested by a ruthless examinant_  

 _That’s represented best by my depressing thoughts.”_  

   
_Oh, Tyler Joseph, you get me._ Stiles giggled like a sugar-fueled child. 

He continued scratching, fingernails tearing into his wounded limbs. The gauze became stained with splotches of rouge. 

 He jerked and twitched; hands rioting from his body. He needed to do something. To just get busy and lost in a task. Hopefully, get so lost he couldn’t think about anything. 

 The song continued. A welcome lull in the screaming impulses clawing at his mind.  

 _“I do not have writer’s block;_  

 _My writer just hates the clock._  

 _It will not let me sleep._  

 _I guess I’ll sleep when I’m dead,_  

 _And sometimes death seems better than the migraine in my head.”_  

   
Stiles paced the room. Sensations and feelings flew past his eyes at impossible speeds. 

His mind registered everything at once.  

The song, an intense need to _do something_ , and his racing thoughts. 

   
_“Am I the only one I know?_  

 _Waging my wars behind my face and above my throat?_  

 _Shadows will scream that I’m alone._  

 _But I know we’ve made it this far, kid.”_  

 The books on his shelf really needed to be alphabetized. 

…Whole galaxies contained in two green eyes. Piercing and beautiful. 

  _“I am not as fine as I seem, pardon,_  

 _Me for yelling._  

 _I’m telling you green gardens,_  

 _Are not what’s growing in my psyche._  

 _It’s a different me._  

 _A difficult beast feasting on burnt down trees.”_  

   
Oh, and he should sort the files on his computer into ‘random research’ and ‘actual school stuff’. 

…A warm mouth against his lips. 

   
_“Freeze frame let me paint a mental picture portrait_  

 _Something you won’t forget._  

 _It’s all about my forehead._  

 _And how it is a door that holds back contents_  

 _That make Pandora’s box contents look nonviolent._  

 _Behind my eyelids are islands of violence.”_  

The floor needed to be vacuumed. 

…Hands at his waist. 

 _“My mind’s shipwrecked._  

 _This is the only land my mind could find._  

 _I did not know it was such a violent island;_  

 _Full of tidal waves, suicidal crazed lions._  

 _They’re trying to eat me;_  

 _Blood running down their chin._  

 _And I know that I can fight,_  

 _Or I can let the lion win.”_  

   
He’d been meaning to write down every song he’d ever liked. 

Oh, and every movie. 

Maybe every book as well. 

…Derek. 

  _“I begin to assemble what weapons I can find;_  

 _‘Cause sometimes to stay alive you got to kill your mind.”_  

   
And he needed to not think about Derek. 

 _…Definitely_ don’t think the Derek thoughts.   
 

 _“And I will say that we should take a day to break away,_  

 _From all the pain our brain has made._  

 _The game is not played alone._  

 _And I will say that we should take a moment,_  

 _And hold it,_  

 _And keep it frozen,_  

 _And know that life has a hopeful undertone.”_  

   
 Stiles smoothed down the sweatpants bunched at his thighs. 

He’d changed, because hey, he wasn’t going anywhere. No one was there to judge him for wearing sweatpants. He’d almost puked from the force of his laughter when he kicked off the dark jeans and a shiny piece of metal fell from his pocket. A pencil sharpener blade.  

He’d had it with him the whole time. It could’ve fallen out when he changed at Derek’s the first or second time. It could’ve even fallen out in the man’s dryer (which would have made for a very awkward, and unwanted, conversation). 

The powers that be or the cosmos or who/whatever, had decided to give Stiles a brake. Probably trying to make up for all the other things that went (and go) wrong in his tiny human life. 

He sat cross-legged in the middle of his bedroom. A perfect circle of empty floor served as the perimeter before carpeting gave way to a sea of assignments, pictures, and lists on ripped notebook paper.  Three empty mugs of coffee and a cold cup of tea had accumulated in a leaning-tower-of-ceramics (keeping hydrated counter balanced his restrictive diet, right?). 

Nothing was ever enough for him. Even with the plethora of stimulants, he needed more. And caffeine was technically a drug, but it was a legal drug so there.   _Only a child ends an argument with ‘so there’,_ came a sniveling reply from somewhere (not PSLTMOTTBDA, that one had been silent for a few hours) _._  Stiles scoffed at the insolence of the voice. _You know what, mind? I don’t need your sass. And this is an internal conversation, in_ my _head so tone down the moxie._  

The paper in front of him blurred. He blinked. The letters blended together. _Caffeine only provides a temporary relief. It just tricks the adenosine receptors. My energy level is an illusion and the crash is going to suck major ass._  

The paper in his hands pulsated, contracting and expanding like a beating heart. Words in black ink took to the air, leaving their paper-prison. He shook his head in an attempt to dispel the hallucination. 

The letters stopped flying off the page. 

Stiles grinned. The pain from his cut lip melted away.   _This is all so…fucked up_. 

A crazed happiness took control. And nothing hurt anymore. Bruises, cuts, and all. 

Everything was fine. 

   
There are two types of tired. 

The kind that happens after staying up too many nights in a row. That was easy; a Friday off from school and the resulting three day weekend fixed it. The bruised under-eyes, crabbiness, and sluggish movements were gone by Monday. The former received care and sympathy.  _‘Poor thing. Just stay home tomorrow and sleep. You need it.’_  

The second was the type of tired sleep couldn’t fix.  It was the exhaustion that soaked bone-deep and leeched on every breath. The second kind colored your skin. It created a mark telling people to stay away, no matter how much you actually needed them close. Those who suffered did not need a weekend of naps and lazy afternoons. 

They did not need sleep. 

They needed peace. 

Sleep would not fix Stiles’ fatigued body. After the crash on Sunday (which was just as crappy as he thought it’d be), Stiles alternated between showering, sleeping, and staring into oblivion. The headache to end all headaches was budding behind his eyes as he got ready for school on Monday. A headache resulting from his ‘upper’ binge. 

The best way to get rid of a hangover was to keep drinking, right? An hour before school, he added two thermogenic diet pills to his usual regiment of medicine. Pretty cutting edge in fat burning supplements. Genius, really. Using metabolic stimulation to increase body heat. He _did_ eat half a jar of peanut butter (which was freaking gross. Who was sadistic enough to invent such a crunchy punishment? Satan, that’s who). That had to count for something. 

He walked the mostly-deserted hallways.  Each step was dragging.  Every footfall matched his weary demeanor. 

   
The locker room was silent except for the drone of industrial-sized fans. Stiles’ jacket wasn’t thick enough to fend off the invading chill (and everyone was expected to strip in that frigid-chamber-of-death. It was the third pole of the world. The BHHS pole. No melting ice caps or penguins here; just shriveled teenage boys).  

Walking at his slowest pace would bring him to Derek’s office in twelve seconds. 

Derek’s office… would mean rejection and embarrassment.  Anddddd that was something he didn’t want to deal with right now. Or ever, really.  

It’d been nice, imagining they could ever be something more than just overbearing coach and damaged student. Stiles had started a game of ‘Where is Coach Hale on the Kinsey scale?’ freshman year. At least he could say with certainty that the man was a little bit gay ( _We did it, Ninth grade-Stiles. We know now)_. 

His view into the office was obscured by a white sheet of drawn blinds. The concealed room earned two places on Stiles’ pros/cons list. 

Pro: he couldn’t see Derek. 

Con: he couldn’t see Derek. 

He’d wanted to gauge the man’s mood before what was probably going to be the most excruciating talk of his life (and yeah, that included ‘the talk’. His dad’s awkward use of properterms and an anatomy book had _nothing_ on the upcoming conversation). Stiles sighed, long and drawn out, before stepping forward. Zeno and indifference and blah blah blah. He counted the passing seconds. 

 _One, two, three._ Looks like the ‘deal with later’ box was losing a big ass item.  _Seven, eight, nine._ The door was propped open.   _Ten, eleven._ He rapped his knuckles on the metal-disguised-as-wood. 

_Twelve._

“Hi…Coach,” Stiles greeted, feeling very much like crawling out of his skin. 

Derek looked up from the messy desk, appearance a little more ‘tormented bad boy’ than usual (or maybe that was just Stiles projecting his own tired/anxious mood onto the older male). 

“Oh, Stiles. Hi-” The muscled coach stood and hurried to shut the door. Their bodies brushed for  an instant.  _Probably the last time_ that _ever happens_ , Stiles mourned. 

Flashes of awkward lacrosse practices, uncomfortable eye contact, and the fear of having to talk to one another flew past his face. All were unavoidable if this ended badly. They were teacher and student, after all. Coach and player. Interaction was inevitable. Stile barely managed to keep his footing, almost pitching his mind into the churning waves  surrounding his tiny rock-asylum. 

He was in the water. The flood had carried him out to sea a day ago. He’d clung to a piece of what looked suspiciously like part of the blue couch his mother had hated so much.  He floated further out. The tide never calmed. Vicious waves knocked him off the ferry of faded-blue safety just that morning. 

The rock hugged between both shaking arms was a shining light. His body felt battered and worn from violent-anxiety waves. The temporary refuge grew smaller and smoother with the eroding force of rancorous seawater. His foot-holds were disappearing.  

The man backed away when the door was firmly locked. A hand rose to comb through his dark hair.  

The teen wouldn’t be able to cling to his protruding boulder for much longer, especially with Derek’s eyes staring into him. An unintentional glare so strong, the weary teen’s knees felt a little wobbly.  

“I’m…-” the older male started, gaze falling to grey and maroon tile. 

“I’m sorry, Derek,” Stiles blurted.  

He didn’t have enough confidence for the conversational stumbling sure to follow. Something along the lines of ‘You’re cool but I can’t. I really like you and I hope this doesn’t change our temporary treaty’.  

 The man’s scowl relaxed minutely, internally grateful Stiles was taking the initiative.  

His arsenal of Social Skills was not equipped to handle _anything_ regarding their situation (his choices were:  getting irrationally angry, definitely not brooding just contemplating in solitude, and forever-avoidance. _Pick your poison, Derek_ ). 

 “I shouldn’t have done… _that_. I that thought maybe you liked me back. I misunderstood. I just read into things.” Stiles offered an apologetic shrug, continuing with his voice little more than a whisper. “I really am sorry. I shouldn’t have forced myself on you. I get it. If you don’t want to talk to me. Anymore, I mean.” 

“Stiles, that’s-” Derek growled, frustrated at his own inability to turn thoughts into words without screwing things up (…more so than they already were).  

“I do like you. And I don’t want to stop… whatever it is we have.” He indicated the both of them with a wayward hand. “You didn’t force me to do anything. I’m an adult with fully functioning arms. I could’ve pushed you away.”  

Stiles looked skeptical. 

“I kissed you back because I wanted to,” the man clarified with a tense expression that spoke enough words to fill a novel. The main focus being how far out of his depth Derek was (way, way out. So far away he couldn’t tell right from left). 

Damn, but Stiles wasn’t making this any easier. The oft-spastic teen was so observant. So speculative but the moment something involved him, or someone showed an inkling of liking him, and suddenly, he was as dense as a tar pit. Just the mere idea of someone _liking him,_ was enough to completely baffle the kid. 

Like right now.   

“You…wanted to?” the pale teen asked, gawking at Derek like he’d admitted to being a Brony. 

“Yeah. And I thought _you_ were supposed to be the one who was good with...”  

“Human interaction?” he supplied, whiskey orbs full of hope.  

Derek’s eyebrows crept up. He crossed his arms (an effort was made to ignore the accompanying image, mentally comparing his stance to that of a petulant child’s. He can cross his arms if he damn well pleases). 

“So I like you. But this isn’t appropriate. You’re my student,” the older man said. His Should Dos and Want To Dos were at a crossroads. 

 Stiles nodded and lowered his head. Fuck, was he always that submissive?  

Derek moved closer. Their chests were inches away in the confined space of his broom-closet.  

 “Look at me,” the man demanded in a firm but not unkind tone.   
  

His head stubbornly remained lowered.The coach’s tanned fingers moved to lift Stiles’ chin. He stared into the gleaming citrine pools contained in the teen’s eyes. 

The teen who didn’t know realize just how beautiful he was.  

“I like you,” he repeated. He’d keep saying it until the words sank in. 

 Those whiskey eyes grew wide and Stiles looked away, overwhelmed by the intense emotion expressed in the man’s green orbs.  He looked so _raw_. His heart and soul exposed. Something Derek probably hadn’t allowed since the last of his family was killed. 

The older male tipped Stiles’ chin further, making eye contact unavoidable. 

“I’ve wanted you since the day I met you.” 

 His other hand snaked around the enticingly presented waist. 

 Stiles’ forehead knotted. His voice was losing the disbelieving tone; growing into something closer to acceptance. “You mean when I thought you were a hairy foreign exchange student?” 

 He heard Stiles but his focus was rerouted. The bones under his palm were just as distressing as they’d been in the elevator. When Stiles had been a pliable and completely trusting teenager unconscious in his grasp. A teenager who didn’t realize how _breakable_ he was.  

 The stronger, older man could tighten his hold on Stiles’ slim hip, breaking the bone in seconds. He could destroy everything.  

Tendons and muscles snapping under his strength  The fragile teen would be powerless to stop him. 

The thought seemed to sober him a little bit, (with the added reminder their privacy was an illusion. They were inside a public high school, after all).  

 Derek used his hold on the thin hip to pull them closer. 

 He could never hurt this boy. 

 “Yes. Even when you gave me the biggest attitude ever, I still wanted you,” the man replied with ease; his words distressingly truthful. He’d never desired a student before.  

Stiles’ pink tongue swiped over a mostly-healed bottom lip, breath catching at the hands on his skin. The only hint of past injury was the slight darkness marring his jaw and the cherry color of his mouth. A vibrant red from the mending wound (and partially from Stiles’ need to bite and lick). 

Derek was definitely not developing an oral fixation for the pretty mouth inches away.  

And his other brain, the brain farther south, really needed to _calm the fuck down._  

Stiles smirked, teeth burrowing into his lip. Derek rested his thumb over the red skin, protecting his mouth from further abuse.  

Long, dexterous fingers appeared and clutched Derek’s hand. The little minx ran his tongue over the appendage. Those bambi eyes remained fixed on Derek while his warm tongue swirled a digit. 

The scene went straight to his cock. 

Derek pulled their hands apart with no warning, barely registering the other’s surprised squeak. 

He crushed their mouths together, engulfing Stiles’ hand in his own.  

The teen’s palm was cold where it touched his skin. 

The sounds Stiles made could only be categorized as ‘lewd’. Derek growled against his soft mouth, deepening the kiss. Turning it into something more passionate. Carnal. 

Stiles didn’t mind. He kind of liked it when Derek got all possessive and handsy. Scratch that. Stiles liked it _a lot_ (and in the end, teenage hormones were the ones making the decisions. He was probably more OK with that than he should’ve been). 

Stiles pulled away, despite his body singing with the urge to lean forward and continue touching the god in front of him.  

“I thought you didn’t want to do this again,” he joked against Derek’s lips, his breath stolen from rough kisses. 

 The man laughed. A deep rumble from his ribcage. The powerful huffs shook the skinny body pressed against him.  

He rubbed his hands up and down Stiles’ back.  Each vertebra was traced with a tenderness Derek didn’t think himself capable of. 

 “No, I said I shouldn’t be doing this. Not that I don’t want to.” He nuzzled the pale teen’s temple. “And trust me, I _really_ want to.” 

 Stiles tipped his head and smiled. The pale column of his throat shined in the sunlight bathing them. There were no waves. The ocean was gone. 

Derek and he were left standing on his office-island, rays of warmth consuming them.  

The bell rang overhead.  Stiles wasn’t bothered by its mechanical song. 

   
 

Time is relative. How time moves depends on your consciousness. Your awareness in a moment. 

One second can last a year. Reversed, your whole life could pass by in a handful of minutes. 

   
 Lacrosse season wasn’t going to pick back up until the spring. No games for a blissful six months.  Practice was still a thing, much to Stiles’ disdain. But his coach was growing soft.  They were shorter, fewer, and thankfully, less painful.  Derek didn’t understand why the clearly unhealthy teen didn’t just quit, (‘Because I get to be closer to you, ya idiot,’he’d told the man. Derek pulled the teen closer; expression neutral. Stiles had smiled and pinched a firm bicep) _._  

   
 Jackson came back from his week-long suspension with the threat of expulsion hanging over his head if there were any more incidents of harassment.  

He tried to jump back into the cesspool of popular kids. It was a little late for that. The queen of Beacon Hills High School had dethroned her king. Lydia ruined the balance of Jackson’s life. So, naturally, he tried to ruin hers. 

   
“Dude, Jackson’s saying he has her nudes,” Scott whispered; his tone conspiratorial. 

Stiles scoffed, looking back down at his book. Stieg Larsson certainly told a better story than his gossiping best friend.  

“I’m pretty sure Lydia’s too classy to send nudes,” he quipped.  

Scott’s glare from across the library table, because even he could read subtext, was laughably serious. The whole ‘Allison is love. Allison is life’ thing was fraying the teen’s patience.  

Stiles bit back a grin. His hands were already flailing as he continued. “And if, somehow, he’s telling the truth, then she’ll take care of him. Basically everyone is on her side. Dude, it’s like the freaking Clones Wars in here. You’re either with The Republic, the major assholes, or The Separatists, the guys who aren’t perfect but are still better than Republic. Not assholes but jerks. Yeah, jerks,” Stiles said; pleased with his comparison. 

Scott blinked, confused expression firmly in place. 

He looked at his best friend impassively. “You still haven’t seen Star Wars.” 

Silence. 

“Blasphemy! I can’t believe you right now.” He shook his head at Scott’s unapologetic smile.  

He focused back on the book, immersing himself in a world of murder, Swedish journalists, and broken hackers clad in black. 

So Jackson was lying, no real shock there, but his empty promise to ‘leak her nudes’ earned him a place back on Lydia’s radar. 

And she did, in fact, destroy him. The high school caste system was harsh and unforgiving. Jackson was an untouchable, thanks to her majesty. 

Stiles watched as the hallway of students parted like the Red Sea as Jackson passed. He felt a twinge of sympathy for the other, walking by with his head lowered. 

 _Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned and all that._  

The blond had really fucked up.   
 

   
His dad was still _his dad._ He still drank and the hurtful words continued.  Stiles was proficient in overanalyzing (because apparently, the moderately drunk-John possessed a halfway decent filter). 

“I work hard to put food on the table and you’re not even eating it. Boys aren’t meant to be that skinny.” _You’re disgusting. I’m working myself into the ground to take care of you. You’re doing this just to spite me._   

“You’ll be kicked off the team if you keep skipping practice, not that it’d matter. You’re just a benchwarmer.” _I wanted a son that was capable of playing sports. But then I get you._  

“I’m disappointed in you.” _I wish you were a better son. I wish_ I _had a better son._  

Every slurred remark. Every snide comment.  

His father’s words, words he never remembered when morning came, carried a weight.  An anchor that wrapped around Stiles’ legs and dragged him into the dark waters.  

His words were heavy.

 _Disappointment,_ they screamed.

 Stiles could handle it. But it was nice to have someone there. Someone to make the hellhole bearable. 

A companion to brave the storm. 

When the comments threatened to send him over the edge, straight into the restless waters of his mind, Derek would make the world less shitty. Stiles met with him and John’s drunken tirades would be forgotten.  Words of malice replaced with words of kindness. 

 “Your eyes are so damn beautiful.” 

“If you keep cooking for me, I’m going to become the stereotypical-overweight coach.” 

“I can’t read your texts at school; I smile at my phone too much and people will think I’ve finally lost it. _And_ I hope you know in class and on the field, it’s very difficult to act like-” 

(‘The bastard you want everyone to think you are?’)“-the bastard I actually _am,_ smartass _.”_   

 The older male’s compassion was hidden in the words he spoke.  Words Stiles yearned to hear. Words of worry and care he’d been neglected of half his life (each parent had a good/bad side. Mom on meds was kind and Dad sans alcohol was funny. The other times, when Claudia ‘forgot’ her pills or John came home with a bottle wrapped in paper…). 

 “Text me when you get home.” 

“Want to watch a movie after school?” 

“I’m admitting that Harris deserves to have his tires slashed. But Stiles, come on. You’re smart enough to have an A in his class. And you can, if you stop arguing and driving yourself higher up on his hit list.” 

“I’m working late tonight so I’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t stay up all night.” 

 

They had secret meetings and ridiculously domestic afternoons at their homes on nights when the sheriff worked late.  

Derek left him feeling light headed and giddy.  

It thrilled Stiles. The same kind of electric fear he felt on every -illegal- trip to the reserve or when he’d -illegally- walk the school’s hallways at night (he couldn’t be blamed for that. Why did they always leave a door unlocked?).  

The little touch of danger. Of ‘what if we’re caught?’ appealed to Stiles. Not so much to Derek. 

The man was almost decade older _and_ his coach. Stiles’ dad was the sheriff. 

If they were discovered…the outcome for Derek would be devastating.  And yet, he wasn’t dissuaded.  His words of reassurance and boyfriend-ly behavior, while appreciated, weren’t the cornerstones of Stiles’ faith in their relationship. It wasthe man’s willingness to risk his job…his _life_ … just to be together. That was something Stiles held onto. Something he revered when they saw each other in the halls and ignored the other’s existence. 

   
Derek stayed after school on some days.  If his dad was busy at the station, he’d stay too. The man had a calming presence when he wasn’t yelling at teenagers or being a grump. 

Stiles always sat in a chair across from the plain, metal desk. His coach would type; tanned fingers hitting the keys too hard. 

 _Tap tap tap tap._  

Stiles usually worked on homework.  

Or pretended to.  

Sometimes he just liked to watch. 

 _Tap tap tap. Tap._  

The broad shouldered man would shuffle papers and continue with his peck-typing and spend more time looking at the keyboard than his screen. The furrow in his brow would worsen and Stiles wanted to reach out and soften his features. Iron out the frown and replace it with a brilliant smile he knew older man was capable of. 

 _Tap tap. Tap tap tap._  

Derek would look up, eyes landing on Stiles. He’d smile and start talking (because he actually was capable of mentally stimulating conversation, he just liked to pretend he wasn’t) or he’d tell the other to go home.  

(“I like being here. It’s fun.” 

Derek wore a skeptical face, complete with sassy eyebrows. “I don’t think sitting here, pretending to do homework, qualifies as ‘fun’.” 

Stiles shrugged, lifting a can of generic soda to his lips. The straw was decimated. He didn’t mean to destroy innocent things with his mouth. It just kind of…happened. 

“To each his own,” Stiles responded. He took a drink and pulled the red plastic from his mouth. Maybe the destruction of many an object was worth it. He didn’t miss the way Derek stared at his lips, eyes fixated).   

If the rest of his life was spent in the seven-by-seven room, with Derek’s atrocious typing and their soft breathing, then he’d be OK with that. 

   
Derek had days that were…not so Good. 

Bad Days. 

On those days, even the sound of his own voice drove him up a wall. Bad Days sat coiled in his stomach, threatening to crawl up his throat and snatch his words. Twisting them and spitting them back at whatever person was talking to him. He made sure to stay securely tucked away from the rest of society on his Bad Days. He couldn’t go off on someone if he was hunched over paperwork or at home in a scalding shower. 

Lovers and friends shied away when they inevitably saw that side of him. The damaged side. 

The depressed part never formerly dealt with. 

And like the emotional toddler he was, sadness wasn’t something he liked feeling. So his default was anger. Laura had been the only one able to handle him on those days. His sister learned early on what to do. Give him time. Be there when he’s ready. No one was successful with just _handling_ it ever since Laura’s death. 

There was a singular omission to that statement.  

An omission in the form of a pale and sarcastic teenager who weighed slightly more than a bowl of grapes. 

He would always be the exception. 

   
Stiles encountered a ‘bad day’ for the first time barely a month into their relationship. It was one of those times under the ‘came close to aggressively panicking but didn’t’ achievement category. 

He’d been preparing. The man had a barely restrained temper so it was bound to happen eventually. Derek seemed like the broody when exceedingly angry/sad/distraught or what have you. 

Stiles’ assumption had been correct. 

His coach’s behavior during a lacrosse practice told Stiles they wouldn’t be spending any time together after school. He’d gone to the older man when everyone was collecting their discarded equipment from the gym floor (the field was being chemically treated before the winter. He preferred the semi-heated space to the biting wind, anyway. Even if the wooden floors were killer on his knees). 

To anyone else, he was just a student asking his coach a question. 

“Derek,” he greeted. 

The man nodded in acknowledgement, saying something along the lines of ‘what’s up?’. 

Stiles cleared his throat. “Hot showers make me feel better.” 

The older male’s face was blank. 

“Or chocolate ice cream and endless cat pictures. That’s a pretty good time,” he elaborated. 

Derek nodded, catching onto what Stiles was telling him.  

The coil wrapped around his throat, the forming retort successfully locked inside.  

 “Thanks,” he managed, voice rough **.**  

Stiles supposed his first encounter with the anger monster went rather well. Derek just needed space. He understood that. 

But no matter how much Derek showed he wanted solitude, Stiles still felt awful abandoning his boyfriend(?) during times of intense stress.  So he…compromised internally for the future ‘bad days’. 

   
Derek was in an awful mood.  

Administration needed to kindly unclench their ass and remove the massive log nestled there. Maybe then, they’d be more likely to agree on an increase in the season’s funding. It was only the second week of October but Beacon Hills’ season had ended one week prior (the first lacrosse team in California to shut down. They were a month early). If the budget was increased, they’d be back in February. The latest being early March. If not, they’d pick back up in April which meant his team would be practicing more than actually playing. 

…So, yeah. He was in a bad mood. 

It was just before lunch time and Stiles would probably be arriving in their eating spot- the Economics room. Derek enjoyed his allotted twenty-five minutes with him.  

The school created a Cloud Of Bad Mood on some days. Pitched voices, unpredictable walking patterns, and glacial-paced groups of kids stoked it into a toxic fog. It hung overhead and he choked on the poisonous fumes.  

   
Seeing Stiles, talking to him, cleared away Derek’s bad mood. He was the sun. His ray’s shined through the dense fog. 

But today… 

The fumes from his Cloud had gone to his head and this was definitely turning into a Bad Day. 

He’d been especially brusque in that day’s Economics class. His budget report had arrived ten minutes before second hour so that group of kids (Stiles’ class, unfortunately) was taking the full brunt of his undiluted anger. Maybe Stiles knew of the man’s mood and wisely, stayed away. 

Derek looked at his computer’s clock. Fifteen minutes into lunch.  

He should’ve texted Stiles. The image of him sitting alone and waiting… 

An unexpected wave of guilt clenched at his stomach. 

   
He scooted back, standing to stretch cramped muscles.  

   
The hallway was deserted so his Dark Cloud Of Foulness didn’t grow any larger.  

Economics/Earth Space was empty when he entered. No sign of Stiles.  

His office seemed a lot smaller when he stepped back in. 

The swivel chair’s creak of protest was ignored as his computer woke up.  

If some of the kids (eh hem, _Greenberg)_ didn’t get their grades up, the team would be losing players. 

Derek smiled at the ripped piece of notebook paper draped across his key board. Recognizing Stiles’ scrawled handwriting, the note read: 

   
_“About three things I am absolutely positive. First, you are way too liberal with setting an early alarm. Second, there is a part of you, and I don’t know how dominant that part may be, that futilely thirsts for my acceptance (and participation) in your ungodly practice of getting up to exercise before the sun is even awake. And third, while I am unconditionally and irrevocably used to functioning on no sleep, the same does NOT apply with you._   _…Take a nap when you get home and skip the work out session tomorrow morning. You get a little…testy…when you’re tired. Please, think of all the children you scare.”_  

Derek snorted, his tempered attitude beginning to drift off. Dispersing into the air.  

He pulled out his phone, sitting forgotten in the old desk. No one was close enough to hear the scary coach’s huffed laughs of pleasant disbelief.  

            Really? Twilight? Judgment.  

His reply was quick and Derek thanked the other faculty for not giving enough of a shit to take away phones. 

           The one who knows what movie that was from doesn’t get to take the moral high ground 

   
The last of his anger-filled-haze disappeared through the vents.  

   
              So this makes you Bella, right? 

   
He could practically hear the teen’s indignant squeak in his saucy reply. 

   
               Oh and being Mr. Sparkles is so much better? 

   
The relaxed sag in Derek’s shoulders paid testament to his improved mood. The teen sent another text. 

   
                So are ya still feeling like stabbing someone?  

   
The Stiles-named Serious Business Phone started ringing. His fingers stuttered on the screen. Text boyfriend or be a responsible adult. 

The dilemma. 

He quickly typed out a message before answering the call. 

   
          What do you mean ‘feeling like’? I already did that today. Twice. 

   
Derek chased the text down with another as the stammering parent introduced themselves. 

   
           But, yeah. I am. All thanks to you, *Bella* _._  

   
The idiot yelling over a phone line for half an hour was not appreciated ( _If your kid’s grades aren’t passing, they’ll be kicked off the team. Simple)._ He rubbed a hand over his face, wiping off the tired. 

The glint of his phone’s screen in the florescent lighting caught his eye. He palmed the device. One new message from ‘The Abominable Snowman’ ( _‘Well, you can’t just put_ Stiles _. That’s shady. The name I picked is more ambiguous. You’re welcome’_ ). 

   
            I’m just going to ignore that last part. I’ll text you tomorrow, after you’ve had sleep. Don’t murder anyone (^. ^)  

   
Derek tucked the phone and note away. A smile overtook his features and didn’t leave until the beginning of his last hour gym class. 

The frown he wore was about ninety six percent fake (the other four were genuine. A short kid with curly hair kept putting a basketball under his t-shirt and asking other kids if they could feel the baby kicking). 

But he couldn’t have the freshies thinking their coach had gone soft, right? 

So the faux-scowl remained, (magnified into genuine annoyance when his eyes landed on the ‘pregnant’ boy). 

The notes continued after that. Each one made Derek cringe, smile, and huff ( _‘Liar. I know you laugh. ‘Huff’? Yeah, right, you big softy’,_ Stiles responded, his smile a brilliant glimmer of light through the man’s perpetual rain cloud). 

   
 Stiles was…frustrating. 

He knew the right combination of words to open people up. To get them talking about things they never talked about. Or how to make things Good when they were Bad. It was child’s play for the teen to read Derek. 

Stiles, however, was a mystery. 

A beautiful and impossible puzzle. 

Derek saw parts of his sister in the other. Little mannerisms. How he handled people. He couldn’t help but see Laura. The way he’d be absorbed in a book or TV show and absentmindedly reach for the man. Trail his fingers down an arm or pet his shoulder.  Stiles could touch but didn’t want to be touched back. 

Laura said it was a control thing. After the fire, she’d felt so helpless. Restricting the physical contact of others, only getting what she allowed, was a coping skill.  

He understood the need for control.  ‘Understanding It’ did not equate to happiness with Stiles’ desperate yearning for it. The compulsive need for control only resulted from having years of none. Did John make him that way? Or someone else? 

Derek knew Stiles’ mom had passed.  (Stiles offered no words, except a dismissive, _‘she’s been gone for a long time’_ ). Had it been it her?  

The teen was able to maneuver Derek’s mental fortress as easily as one would navigate their childhood home in the dark. He moved with a swiftness so calculated it was like he lived there. And maybe he did. Maybe the slim teen had taken up permanent residence in his mind’s defenses. 

Stiles was the only one. And that frustrated him. 

Derek couldn’t even find a road leading to the teen’s front gate. 

And Derek was not good with words.  When he had qualms with Stiles’ health, he said nothing. 

He had Stiles over to the loft more often; on the nights when John was working late. The teen had a passion for cooking and Derek enjoyed the company (and added skill. He could make simple dishes. Edible things that quelled his hunger. ‘Edible’ and ‘good’ were often two different things, though).  But maybe his plan wasn't working as well as he'd thought. 

Sure, Stiles came over to help make dinner two or three times a week. And they had lunch together. But…even then, the teen hardly ate. During their shared school meals, he would: A) Eat nothing or B) Drink a sugary beverage. On rare occasions, he’d have some low calorie snack even a mouse couldn’t sustain its existence off of. And eating continued to be a fascinating show with him. 

Break food into minuscule portions. Talk. Flourish. Small bite. Drink. Push food around plate. 

It’d stopped being entertaining when the origin of the skinny teen’s eating ‘quirks’ had become known to Derek. 

He could never tell if Stiles was lying about food consumption. The hesitation of the first morning at his loft months ago was gone; the teen was prepared to be asked food-related questions now. So if Stiles answered, ‘oh yeah, I ate breakfast’, Derek didn’t know if that _actually_ meant he’d eaten. It was disconcerting. 

   
They hadn’t gone far sexually. Not for lack of want in both parties. 

Derek was hesitant to…go at it…with a minor. The ‘underage’ status meant nothing to Stiles (and his dick) but… 

There was always the ‘but’. 

He was…embarrassed?  Ashamed?  

All of the above? 

His body…his scars…he was hideous in comparison to Derek’s flawless form. 

…which, Stiles had come to find, wasn’t exactly true. 

   
They hadn’t done anything besides make out coupled by some heavy petting. And that was enough for both of them. 

In the heat of a ‘session’, the older male’s shirt had come off. 

The smaller teen’s seated position on Derek’s lap was the perfect height to see his well-muscled chest. The man's eyes had widened in fear.  

Stiles beheld the tanned skin, palms resting flat on now-bare shoulders. 

Scars.  

Burn scars, to be more specific. 

Blotches of light pink mottled his upper ribs, winding around the expansive chest to end under a shoulder blade. 

Derek looked away.  The hands at Stiles’ clothed hips tightened in a bruising grip.  

“It happened in the fire. We got back from town and I don’t know- something just snapped and I ran to the house. Some firemen had to pull me back before I burned to death. I thought I could get them out.”  He shrugged his powerful shoulders, jarring the teen’s hands. 

“I guess they got to me a little late, huh?” Layers of shame and embarrassment bled through the older man’s joking tone, exposing his insecurity. 

Misplaced insecurity. 

There was a patch of dark hair sprouting between his pecs. The trail led to Derek’s navel, eventually disappearing underneath his denim waistline. 

Stiles’ mouth watered. _Very_ misplaced insecurity. 

Stiles didn’t respond to the other’s pain-filled words, thinking it better to  _show_ him.  

He slid one pale hand to a scarred pectoral. The skin was smooth under his fingertips.  

The breath caught in Derek’s throat. 

His young lover mapped out burn-healed flesh with touches as light as a butterfly’s kiss. He could only watch as long fingers danced across his torso, no disgust on the teen’s attractively featured face. 

He didn’t follow a pattern. The unblemished areas of flesh were just as interesting. Treated with caresses just as delicate. Stiles carded a hand through soft chest hair. The body under him gave a pleased shudder. 

The burning hot rock sitting heavy in Derek’s stomach cooled. What had he expected? Stiles to jump off his lap and never talk to him again? He lazily grinned. The teen’s brown hair tickled at his collar bone. Derek combed his fingers through the strands. He groaned at the feeling of a hot, wet tongue pressing above his heart where one of the most minor burns resided. He fisted the soft hair and yanked up. The noise Stiles made sent shivers up his spine. 

Amber eyes were blown wide with need. Derek pulled farther back, fully exposing Stiles’ throat.  

He looked through long, dark lashes. The older man growled; a primal urge to _claim_ overtaking him. He leaned forward, clenching the fist in Stiles’ hair. 

The teen inhaled sharply as Derek licked his skin. A strip starting from under his jaw to finish at one prominent collar bone. He shuddered as the saliva cooled. The lips at his clavicle smiled, followed by sucking that whited-out his vision and turned slender limbs into rubber. Derek’s stubble scraped across his flesh. Teeth joined the rough lips and Stiles panted, hands clawing down the man’s arms. 

His talented mouth pulled away just enough to watch the pale skin darken. He looked up from his mark. 

Their eyes connected. 

Emerald galaxies were meager slivers on the fringe of an immense black abyss. And _fuck,_ the hungry look on the man’s face had Stiles whimpering. Derek’s hand tensed in the soft brown hair. He growled and bit down on the deep, red mark blooming across Stiles’ shoulder. The teen groaned, head pushing back into Derek’s closed fist  

His hips pressed flush against Stiles’ ass, cock a hard line in the constricting jeans. 

Stiles bucked forward in response, fingers desperately clutching at the man.  

He bit down harder. 

   
 

It’d been two months since they first kissed on Stiles’ porch. 

The November days were shorter and the weather colder. 

Nature’s brush painted effervescent flames into the landscape. 

( _“Ruska.”_   

Derek turned briefly, eyes flicking between his passenger and the road.  

 _“What?”_  

Stiles gestured to the rapidly passing scenery. A blur of red, green, and orange. 

 _“The leaves changing colors. It’s called ruska. The sun is less intense and veins in leaves that carry this sugar fluid everywhere start to close off. It all gets trapped and turns into anthocyanin, which makes the shades of red. They stop producing chlorophyll and the anthocyanin and Carotenoids change the leaf’s color before it falls off.”_ He glanced at Derek, expression unreadable. _“It’s weird. They’re dying but they’re so…beautiful.”_  

Derek stopped for a gaggle of children led by the (presumably) exhausted mother. 

He stared at the pale teen. The setting sun and vibrant leaves created a backdrop for the true beauty. 

Stiles turned to find eyes on him. He responded with a beaming smile. 

Derek felt blinded.) 

Stiles was always cold now.  His hands trembled. The chill was carving a place into his skin. Some days, the cupids bow lips were tinged in blue. 

Stiles said he was fine. 

   
Their relationship was like a dream Derek had long since given up on. The daunting prospect of spending everyday alone receded. 

His future was no longer seen as waking up to an empty bed and oppressive silence. It became soft caresses, teasing, and freedom from the monotony of living. With Stiles, he saw a future.  And that scared him. 

It had to be a dream because nothing in Derek’s life could feel that _right_ and be real. 

   
When two broken people come together, there are things not talked about. Subjects never broached.  

The broken people add to a ‘don’t talk about’ chest. 

But eventually, that chest filled. And things come out, whether they want them to or not. 

Derek was aware of how many things were currently piled in The Chest. 

His additions were fairly simple; Family. Laura, especially.  

Stiles added to The Chest with actions.  

A flinch when his mother was mentioned.  A fear filled pause at an inquiry to his father’s alcohol intake. 

Derek had enough tact to know what not to mention. Like the fact he wasn’t eating and sometimes, contact with his arms or thighs was followed by a hiss of pain. Or the normal, glassy-eyed look most overworked teens sported was replaced by a lethargic and unaware expression. Too artificial from wariness alone. More likely caused by the pills he swallowed when ‘no one’ was looking. 

Derek cared. So freaking much.  

He just didn’t know how to turn his care into help. Help that could clean out the near-bursting chest between them. 

   
He’d been useless in the past to his loved ones. His ‘help’ never succeeded. Always _too late_. 

But Stiles was right there. Within his grasp. 

He could reach out. He just needed to know _how._  And that was the crux of it. 

He didn’t know how. 

That disheartened feeling changed. Now, Derek was…sad. Expressing sadness was unfamiliar. Anger though… Anger he could do. 

He understood it.  It’d been the only constant in his life after the fire. But he wasn’t angry with Stiles. Somehow that was lost when Derek finally opened The Chest.  

Two months of unfocused frustration and hushed worry spilled out, drenching the broken people. 

   
 Stiles scratched at his sleeves. He occupied Derek’s bed, leaving his coach in the side chair. 

The teen chewed on the end of an already ruined pen, flipping pages of his Calculus book with more force than necessary. He mumbled something like ‘please Prince Stolas, help me’. 

The older male watched as he ran fingers through already-disheveled hair. He’d scratch his arms and run a hand down his thigh, firmly pressing. The slouched position exposed skin by his nape. Bones peaked out from the collar. If he wasn’t wearing a t-shirt under another long sleeved one, Derek was sure his spine would be poking from the fabric. 

 Fifteen minutes of fidgeting later, Derek was done being silent. He was going to speak his mind, damn it. 

“I don’t get why you keep doing that shit,” Derek gestured towards him with a stab of his phone. 

The rhythm Stiles had been tapping stopped as he looked up from his work. “What?” 

“The cutting and the drugs. And starving yourself or whatever the fuck you’re doing.” 

The teen’s forehead pinched in confusion. Or maybe shock.  

“Yeah, I know about your problems with eating. I’m not an idiot.” He continued before Stiles could talk. “Aren’t you happy? Don’t I make you feel better?” 

He frowned, hands bunching up the blankets under his palms.  

“I am happy. With you and what we have.”   
  

“So why do you keep doing _that_?” He hissed. 

 “Fuck-” Stiles blew out a breath, “ _Derek._ Do you think you can just ‘fix me’? I- this really isn’t about you.” 

 Derek just stared, face tense.  

Here was the impasse. 

“Derek,  _please.”_ The pale teen sighed again. It wasn’t sharp or frustrated. He just sounded…resigned. Pleading. “I don’t want to talk about this.” Stiles said quietly, eyes downcast. 

“I want to see.” The dark-haired man said with a simple nod of his head. 

And he  _did._

He knew every time Stiles cut. He’d forgone constantly covering his arms in Derek’s presence. So when he’d wear a hoodie or long sleeves for two weeks straight and then go back to uncovering his arms, the man caught on. And just from the damage to the visible limbs… he needed to know if the places unseen were worse. 

“Derek, this isn’t-” 

“You don’t need to hide from me. Here-” The older male stood, making his intentions clear. 

“Don’t-” Stiles tried to argue. 

But Derek was already pulling off his thin sweater, stare challenging. The burn scars roped around his chest and curled at his shoulder blades. The skin nearly blended in with the rest of his tanned body.  

 “You almost died trying to save your family, Derek,” Stile said, no energy for argument in his words. 

“So that makes it OK, then?” 

“I’m not-” The tendons in Stiles’ thin neck grew taut with emotion. He inhaled. “I’m not saying it’s OK. I’m just not…proud of my scars.” 

“Because you give yourself yours,” Derek retorted. 

The man wished he could suck the words back into his brain where they belonged, locked away forever. But it was too late; they hung heavily over the two. Swirling in the air around them. 

There seemed to be a moment when Stiles wasn’t quite sure if  _those words_ had come from  _Derek’s mouth._

“You could’ve told me that’s how you really felt,” Stiles bit out; venom dripping from his voice. The blanket was being throttled within an inch of its soft life in long-fingered hands. “I’m sorry my problems  _bother you._ Forgive me for not meeting your standards of excellence and not handling my  _issues_ as well as you do. Because  _clearly,_ you have all of yours under control.” 

“No. I- Stiles, no” Derek advanced forward, hands reaching to grip his boney shoulders from where he was edging off the bed. His legs were bent into an (most likely uncomfortable) ‘M’ shape. “That came out wrong. Hey- hey,” his young boyfriend’s head was down. The older man crouched, attempting to get the golden-brown eyes back to his. “That was fucked up. I didn’t mean- Please talk to me.”  

There was a slight tremor in the knobby shoulders. 

“Stiles, please? That wasn’t what I meant to say. Just the thought of you hurting yourself- I don’t like it.” 

The other looked up, eyes puffy with unshed tears. “Derek, I can’t do this right now. I can’t talk about this.” 

Derek nodded, throat constricted. He squeezed the teen’s shoulders before letting go. He stood to his full height; the soreness from bending down put on the back burner. He nodded again, words coming out rough. “I…Yeah. OK.” 

Stiles shut his text book and began stacking the papers surrounding him. Without looking up, he said, “I have to go. My dad’s probably home.”  

Derek looked at the clock: eleven thirty at night. Where had the time gone? 

“OK,” the guilty man repeated. He sifted through disorganized thoughts for something Not Completely Wrong to say. Something to fix the heavy air settling between them.  

Derek’s hesitation only made Stiles grit his teeth. He found his words but the damage was done. “Do you want me to walk you out?” 

The skinny teen shuffled on his feet, hands obscured by long sleeves. He smiled and Derek didn’t know if that was a Good or Bad thing.  

It was a grin he wore in Scott’s presence. A grin he wore during school.  

This ‘smile’ was his mask. He’d stopped wearing it in front of Derek a while ago. 

 _Definitely Bad, then._  

“No, I’m fine. See you later,” Stiles said, voice dismissive. 

Derek couldn’t do anything but stare in shock as his boyfriend exited the room. 

The sliding of the metal door echoed in his loft. 

He let out a breath of defeat. A bright purple eraser rested on his pillow, forgotten by its owner. Derek sat on his bed, palming the rubber.  That could have gone  _a lot_ better. 

He threw it into the bedside drawer. His face found the comforter seconds later. The fabric smelled of Stiles.  

And like some kind of demented wolf, he inhaled the enticing scent. Mint and lavender and something so distinctly _Stiles_ he couldn’t describe it in words (the forest after rain? Warm tea on a cold day? _When did you become such a sentimental ass?)._  Stiles’ favorite flower was lavender. 

He inhaled again. 

 Maybe he really was just a crazed dog. A mad-wolf without a pack. 

An omega among humans. 

He screwed both eyes shut, keeping his face buried in the pillows. 

Sleep sounded like a fucking brilliant idea. 

  

Stiles’ white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel kind of hurt his hands. He didn’t lighten up. 

His phone was on a quest to wear through the car seats. Its unending vibrations resonated off the Jeep’s cab. And his act of ‘hear no evil/ see no evil’ should’ve won an award.  His dad was going to be pissed but Stiles was fresh out of fucks to give.  

Derek was an idiot. Maybe the biggest idiot to ever exist. Or maybe he was just confused. 

They _did_ jump into a relationship with the difficulty level stuck on ‘extremely fucking hard’. 

Stiles grit his teeth. Or maybe the man really did think love was just a cure-all for mental illness. Or that Stiles could just stop or, or even the reason he continued being ‘unhealthy’ had _anything_ to do with the man himself… it just pushed the fragile teen closer to the water’s edge. 

He wasn’t really _mad_ at with the man. He was sad Derek, of all people, would believe those idealistic things. 

...Maybe he was a _little_ mad.  

To his credit, the older male was clearly out of his depth. Spending most of your adult life in social isolation and grief-filled anger…  he was bound to be a little out of touch. 

Tomorrow, then. Maybe they could go somewhere and have a talk after school. Things would be all right if he could just make Derek understand. 

Everything would be OK. 

Stiles walked through the front door, one hand hanging from the strap around his shoulder (he knew one-strapping a backpack was bad for your spine. He knew, just didn’t care). He stepped out of both worn sneakers, eyes combing the room. 

“Dad?” 

Glass shattered in the kitchen. His heart jumped. A dread filled his stomach. The walls pulsed with the water they were holding back. 

“Dad? What was that?” He asked more urgently. 

No answer.  

The floors grated. Massive cracks splintered the walls.  

“Dad?” 

He stalked forward with silent steps.  

Each shadowed corner was checked, as if his dad would materialize in the darkness and surprise him. Stiles peaked into the kitchen. His dad was seated at the table, surrounded by stacks of dishes. A plate and cup were in a pile of shattered glass against the opposite wall. 

John didn’t look up when he entered. The neck of a clear bottle stuck out from over the sink. OK, then. This wasn’t dread he was feeling. 

It was fear. 

He walked forward, arm slowly reaching out to his inebriated father. The sheriff wouldn’t attack him. That was once. Once when he had gone too far with his words.  

It wouldn’t happen again. That didn’t stop the water from pooling around their feet. The current pushed against him. His knees felt weak. 

“Dad?” Stiles was one step away, hand inches from touching his father’s hand. 

The man’s head jerked up; green eyes ablaze with fury. Stiles flinched back. 

John made no further move, content to watch through glazed eyes. Stiles wanted to say something. Sorry I was late. Sorry I ignored your calls. His father’s growing anger spurred him into talking. 

 “Scott was a little more confused with his homework than he told me so it took longer explaining-” his father put up one hand, the universal motion for ‘silence’. Stiles quickly ended his ramble. 

 “I talked with Melissa today.”  

His heart stopped beating. The water was frigid. He shivered. 

John fiddled with a glass cup, oblivious to his son’s distress. “I was at the hospital right before my shift ended. She’s really nice, I miss talking to her. We were catching up when I asked what you and Scott had planned besides studying and she had no idea you’d be hanging out today. Apparently, it’s Scott and Allison’s date night.” He turned to his son, thousand-yard stare never faltering.  

Stiles itched to crack his knuckles. Or roll his shoulders. To do _something._ To move under his father’s intense eyes. He remained perfectly still. 

The sheriff was too steady. Too calm. Like a cobra ready to strike. Eerily motionless. Aware of nothing but his prey. 

John abruptly stood. Stiles jumped back. 

“You just love-” his father swayed, righting himself on the edge of the table, “- making me angry, don’t you?” 

The teen was frozen in fear. His father fumbled with a white mug. 

He swallowed. A wave of dark water hit his chest, causing a stumble as he backed away. 

A cup flew past him, glass spraying inches from his face. The sting of a shard burned his cheek. 

He didn’t even get the chance to run. 

  

There was a cut on Stiles’ face. A shallow thing on one prominent cheek bone. 

 It made Derek want to punch something.  

Teaching Economics was becoming increasingly difficult. He momentarily forgot what branch of government his lecture was about. No one noticed the brief hesitation.  Well, no one except Stiles. 

The teen looked up at his lull in speech, honey eyes falling to intense green. Stiles’ face darkened a shade and his head jerked back down. His hand was poised in front of whatever he was drawing.  

Derek persistently told him not to draw on the desk (removing marks required harsh scrubbing and a blood sacrifice). Even after a week of… ‘detention’, the two of them sitting around a laptop watching YouTube videos, Stiles continued with his sketches.  

The little minx was doing it on purpose, just to keep the happy-scowl on the older male’s face. 

He ached to reach out and talk to Stiles.  Apologize and ask who the fuck needed to die for hurting him (the coach hoped it wasn’t the sheriff because his self-restraint could only withstand so much).  

A classroom full of witnesses (he _really_ sounded like a creeper) stopped him from doing just that. 

Derek waited. 

   
An agonizing forty minutes later, class ended.  

The heathens dispersed when the too loud bell went off. Lydia murmured something to her friend and Stiles meekly raised his head, nodding to the coach. She stared between them and stood up. Derek understood the meaning behind her sassy hair flip as she passed. _‘I know about you two and will destroy anyone who hurts my little Stiles’_. Received loud and clear. 

With all of the cretins gone, he turned to the door. Derek flicked the lock with an easy brush of his hand. He walked to Stiles and leaned against the black tabletop opposite him. Mirroring their interaction from months ago. 

The teen stared forward, anxiously cracking nimble fingers. He nibbled a cherry colored lip; his expression crossed between faked-nonchalance and barely restrained frustration. 

Derek was angry with everything. The sheriff, the school board, the cruelness of the universe. He was angry  _at_ everything. 

Everything, except Stiles (that was his motto now, wasn’t it? ‘ _Except, Stiles’_ ).  There was guilt tinging the edges of his anger. Because Derek was a child and had to make the teen’s problems about him. 

So childish. Very selfish. Much bad. 

And dammit, the memes Stiles shoved down his throat ( _“They’re the pinnacle of this generation’s humor. Get with it, Der!”)_ were surfacing in his mind at a time least appreciated.  _Not now, Derek. Not now._  

“Stiles…” he began.  

The pale teen didn’t look up. A small twitch of his shoulders was the only indication he had heard Derek at all. 

“Stiles, I’m sorry.” 

He turned to the coach. There was a bruise on his temple, opposite the cut.  

Derek’s jaw tensed. 

The teen raised an eyebrow in a _you’re actually apologizing to me?_ sort of way. 

Derek huffed, muscular arms crossed at his chest bouncing against the abrupt snort. “Why are you so shocked? I’ve said sorry before.” 

Stiles barked out a laugh, sarcasm coloring the breath. The tightness in Derek’s shoulders relaxed. This sarcasm wasn’t the I’m Angry And Whatever I Say, I’m Saying To hurt You type of sarcasm Stiles used when upset (Derek had been on the brunt of that before. Not very pleasant, in his opinion). This was just…Stiles.  

“I’m pretty sure the only time you’ve said sorry was the day after I kissed you.” 

 Derek looked down and smiled. “So maybe this is the first apology.” He considered himself and continued with, “The first _sincere_ apology.” 

The teen fought a grin, failing miserably after he peaked at Derek. 

The older male straightened when he remembered his mission to stop being a child. “But I really am sorry. I just- I’ve never dealt with…this before. It’s uncharted territory.” He blew out a breath. “I have no idea what I’m doing.” 

Stiles bit his lip, eyebrows rising as he said: “That makes two of us, then.” 

Derek curled a finger and ran the length of Stiles’ bruised and cut cheek.  

“Did John…?” He didn’t finish. Couldn’t, actually. Couldn’t admit out loud that maybe his childish behavior had resulted in the other’s injury. 

The skinny teen stiffened but offered no further words which was enough of an answer. A low simmering anger coiled in his gut and the centering breath thing was not working all that well. 

Derek continued, trying to reel it in. “I was being a child last night.” 

He sighed with barely suppressed resignation before agreeing. “Yeah, you were.” A bitter smile twisted his mouth. “We really are a mess, aren’t we?” 

Derek reached forward and ran his hand through the soft hair he’d developed a bit of an obsession with.  

Stiles tensed minutely. 

“I can’t argue with that,” he agreed. The soothing circles his hand traveled aimed to calm. 

“The good kind, though,” the teen mumbled. Both eyes closed under the feeling of his boyfriend’s gentle touch. 

Derek nodded. A new expression shaped his face.  “The best.” 

   
**_“There is two types of tired;_**  

 ** _I suppose one is a dire need of sleep._**  

 ** _The other is a dire need of peace.”_**  

 **-Mandeq Ahmed**  

   
 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, Internet! 
> 
> Did you not absolutely hate it? Maybe even liked it? :) 
> 
> And I'm so sorry for the crappy formatting! Apparently, switching between a thumb drive, to a Mac, to an Asus, back to a Mac, and finally onto Ao3 completely screwed the formatting (it's all spaced out and choppy and ugh).  
> I tried for literal hours before giving up. Seriously, I'm sorry (why is the universe so cruel?).
> 
> I hate to put on airs so I'm going to admit this right now: smut scenes are not my specialty. I will dutifully try during the big scene when the story ends but I'm just saying...might not be 'great'. 
> 
> I have to thank LustMonster, the writer of A Step Without Feet, because one of her(his?) scenes inspired me.  
> So thank you!! 
> 
> I have a family to feed so please, remember to leave those comments;)  
> But in all seriousness, comments do make me more motivated to continue this monstrosity. 
> 
> Goodbye, Internet! 
> 
> Until next time, my friends.  
> Which is an unknown.  
> Stay classy<3


	6. To thine own self be true

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Derek has a birthday. And Stiles' friends really need to Stop Right Now. Oh, the sheriff is in here somewhere. 
> 
> Or the one where it starts off pretty good, gets sad, cathartic, gets OK and somehow ends up...??

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t know if any of you still watch Teen Wolf (because let's admit, it's a sinking ship. pun totally not intended) but can I just say that I totally called it? Everything with Claudia, I mean. She was abusive towards Stiles before she died because of her FTD sooooo…just saying. Maybe I’m psychic ;)  
> (...completely breezes past the fact that it's been eight+ months since I've updated. Just think of this as an early christmas present. And if you don't celebrate christmas, then happy holidays and enjoy the chapter!!)
> 
> “To forget the dead would be akin to killing them a second time.”  
> -Elie Wiesel, Night

Scott had acquired a sports bike. Double edged sword, that was.

He and Allison rarely ate at the lunch table anymore. Good. Stiles didn’t have to deal with the pouring rain when Scott would ignore him in favor of drooling over his girlfriend.

He and Allison rarely ate at the lunch table anymore. Bad. Lunch had become one of the only times the two friends could see each other.

The table was growing increasingly emptier. 

Jackson had been exiled and Lydia was too occupied with sleeping her way through all of the hot upperclassmen (whatever her plan was there). She and Jackson hardly ate at the table before anyway, so maybe the change was in his mind.

Most of the time it was just Boyd and Erica. And occasionally a quiet kid who Stiles vaguely recognized. 

Erica grew suspicious at his absence.

“Come on.”

“No.”

“Pl _ease_?”

“No.”

The blonde pouted and leaned back in her chair, arms crossed. Poster child for ‘I’m very upset because I am not getting what I want’.

“But, Stilesss, I need to know if my little Batman is finally getting laid.”

Stiles bit into a plastic- tasting carrot.

“You don’t even know if that’s the reason,” he responded, refusing to budge.

She raised an eyebrow. Mrs. Pouty Petulance: deactivated. Master of Sass: galvanized.

“That’s the only possible explanation. Unless you’ve actually become a superhero and are too busy fighting crime to be here everyday.” She gave him a once-over. “And _that_ , my dear, is impossible.”

Boyd snorted but didn’t look up from his phone.

“Really? Those were your first two thoughts?” Stiles asked, brushing past her implied ‘you could never be an ass kicking hero’. “Since _clearly_ I can’t be actual-Bruce-Wayne-in-disguise-”

“Stiles, there have been water bottles that I had to open for you,” she interjected.

He continued, ignoring her. “-what evidence do you have for you other…conclusion?” 

_Challenge accepted._ “You always used to…eat… with us. _And_ you never used to have plans. Now, I’ll be lucky if you can take time out of your ‘busy’ schedule to go buy the _All New X-Men_ with me- because seriously, that’s going to be a killer.” Her eyes started to gloss over in that ‘imminent fangirl rant’ kind of way but the girl shook it off. She had a mission. No distractions. “Then there’s the…glow,” she added, waving her hand in front of his face.

“Glow?”

Erica and Boyd shared a look that spoke volumes. 

“Yeah. You just radiate this…bliss. Sunshine that can _only_ be from love.”

She leaned forward, placing her palms flat against the table. “So, who is it?”

“…Your evidence is completely circumstantial. None of this would hold up in a real trial.”

She didn’t flinch. “I’ll just guess, then.”

 “Pretty sure you can’t just ‘guess’ in a real trial, either,” he pointed out. 

The blonde shrugged. “This isn’t a real trial. So, there.” Although she didn’t waggle her hand and stick out her tongue, Stiles could sense she greatly wanted to. 

Erica continued. ‘Serious business’ played over her features. “Are they a social outcast? Because I have news for you, we-” the blonde gestured to the three of them, “- are social outcasts.”

Stiles crumpled the empty bag of potato chips on his tray. “Are we just going to take this abuse, Boyd?” 

The other teen’s eyes and shoulders raised. _‘Yes, we are definitely going to take this abuse’_. Stiles raised his fingers in a mock salute. _Thanks for having my back, man._

Erica ignored both of them. “Hmm. Too obvious, right?” She curled a lock of gold-colored hair around her finger. “They must be hideous. Are you dating down? Because, let me tell you -you don’t need to date down.”

His cheeks began warming. With a snort, he replied: “No, Erica. He’s definitely not hideous.” 

_Wait. Oh no._

She smiled like a cat who had just cornered the mouse. “A guy, huh?” Her face lit up with a smarmy self-satisfaction. “I already know your type.” She was a cat who’d just eaten the mouse and its entire family too.

The pale teen scoffed, trying to play off his accidental outing casually. Oh yes, no problem here. He completely meant to do that. “Oh, you know ‘my type’? You didn’t even know I was into guys.” His hands shot out in a wild flail, narrowly toppling his half-empty bottle of green tea.

Erica flipped her hair. Not a cat anymore. An exotic bird ruffling its feathers after being deemed anything but beautiful. 

“Umm, as far as you know. And yeah, I definitely know your type.”

‘ _Oh, really?’_ Stiles’ face challenged.

 “Let’s see…about your height or a little taller, probably built like a brick shithouse. You know, that whole lumber-sexual thing.” The girl squinted; narrowing her eyes to peer into Stiles’ mind (he honestly wouldn’t be surprised if she could). “And a closeted emotional train wreck.”

“…”

 “I’m right.” She forced Boyd into a high five. “So combining your type with the knowledge that, for some reason, it’s a secret (even to your a _mazing friends_ )… it’s forbidden love, isn’t it?”

_Shit._

“Like a senior that hasn’t come out yet?” The blonde teen gaged his reaction.Nodding to herself, she continued her ‘game’.“So excluding seniors, I can only think of a few guys here that make my sirens go off …” she drifted, invisible dots connecting in her head.

The teen swallowed. _Zugzwang. German for ‘compulsion to move’. Any move I make will worsen my position._  

He glared at Erica’s furrowed brow. At her concentration. _Yep. In Zugzwang all the way. One word and she’ll know._

 Lydia was the only one who knew. The strawberry blonde affirmed she, of all people, had no place to judge. Her occasionally-shagging-status with the new deputy made sure of that. What was the guy’s name? Pearson? Peyton?

Erica’s eyes went wide. “Stiles…it can’t be-”

The lunch bell rang overhead, masking the rest of her sentence.

Stiles jumped up, tray in hand. “I have to go. See you guys later,” he called, throwing a wave behind him.

Damn. The ‘deal with later’ box was just starting to get emptier.

Erica wouldn’t remain there long. She would see to that.

 

She waited a whole ten minutes.

 

History had only begun and the teacher’s voice was already a dull drone in the back of Stiles’ mind. His phone buzzed against his thigh. He cautiously glanced around before checking the message.

        DUDE. you’re fucking the gym teacher.

Stiles nodded to no one but himself. A lip firmly pressed between his teeth. His phone buzzed again.

        i know you are. don’t try to lie or i’ll come to your class RIGHT NOW.

_Denial. Denial is my best friend._

        Erica, I’m not.

He glanced nervously at the door. Surely she wasn’t serious…

        getting up and walking to the door

He responded, tapping the screen in a frantic rush.

         Erica! Seriously

His phone showed an incoming message just as he hit send.

         in the hallway.

Mr. Yukimura hadn’t caught him yet.

         Please do not come here.

She didn’t respond. Desperate, he typed:

         OK! I am. Don’t make a scene

         Don’t tell. Please, Erica

She didn’t keep him waiting. Two texts came at once.

         i frakking knew it.

         btw, i’m still in class. never left.

Stiles shook his head. Of course. She’d been bluffing. Before he could scrap together some explanation or plea, the blonde teen double texted.

         i’m not going to tell. i get it. as long as you’re happy, i’m happy.

         but you could’ve trusted me, i’m always here for you.

Relief blanketed him.

         thank you, Erica.

He put his phone face down on the desk when the teacher stared in his direction a little too long.

         and as long as he’s good to you, he can keep his balls.

The teen chanced a reply.

         Are you threatening my boyfriend?

Stiles could hear her deadpan through the next three messages.

         definitely.

         so glad this has been cleared up though. because i, along with the whole student body, did not know if he was a cock cruncher or muff muncher.

         he was the schrodinger’s cat of BHHS

Stiles almost snorted, until he realized where he was. A casual cough and readjusting of limbs allowed him to recover.

         You can’t tell. Seriously.

Lightning quick, she sent two more texts (as was her signature. How did Boyd manage?).

         um…duh.

         and just curious, does lydia know?

Mr. Yukimura seemed displeased to say the least. Stiles shortly replied with:

         Yes.

The teacher’s glare was nothing to Stiles (Derek was _the glare master_ ) but he tried his best to look apologetic.

         of fucking course. i can’t beat her.

_No one can,_ he thought jovially. His phone found its home back into his pocket. It should have been more concerning that someone else knew. Stiles could only smile.

 

Derek had growled under his breath four times in the twenty minutes since Stiles had arrived in the man’s office.

He was still in ‘grumpy coach’ mode. A twinkle remained in the man’s eyes, though, that begged Stiles to stay. So he did (taking the man-child’s behavior in stride).

A single bud dangled from his ear, threatening to fall out. Stiles jammed it back in and thumbed the screen. Mr. Growls A Lot wasn’t providing any conversation so he looked to Pandora for help (and so far, it was failing him too). He pressed skip again.

A new song started. Stiles’ eyes drifted to the cluttered desk. Paper, office supplies, and mug towers consumed the man buried beneath.

_No wonder he sent a ‘too busy’ text before lunch. That’s a literal mountain of paperwork._ He eyed the mess, forming a stratagem. Maybe if he came before Derek the following morning, he could make it a surprise. An uncluttered work space led to better productivity. Or so he’d heard. Never really tested it.

He studied the man as he diligently worked. The stubble grew thicker on Derek’s jaw as the months grew colder. Stiles wanted to rub his face on it- 

Anddd those thoughts were unproductive. 

He took out an ear bud and asked: “Need any help?”

The man raised his head lazily. “Do you have a way of writing ‘fuck off’ to the administrators that won’t get me fired immediately?”

“No matter how you phrase it ‘fuck off’ means ‘fuck off’,” he answered with an amused smile.

The older man nodded, looking back down. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

Stiles could see the beginnings of a grin. If Derek could just continue talking, he’d be able to stop the snowball before it spiraled into a ‘bad day’ avalanche.

_“Press my nose up, to the glass around your heart-”_

The song stopped when he ripped out the other ear bud.

 He had a plan to carry out. No distractions. 

His eyes scanned the stacks, looking for anything to get Derek talking. Anything to stop the rapidly growing snowball.

A beaten and dog-eared book peaked out from under an equally rumpled planner with the title ‘November second: Today’s Objectives’ on the open page.

Stiles rotated his head to read the upside down words.

 “ _The Perks of Being a Wallflower,”_ he read aloud. Derek glanced at the teen.

“Any good?” Stiles asked, gingerly rescuing the book from the clutches of paper mountain. He felt as if he’d heard the name. Maybe an upcoming film? He hadn’t watched TV in awhile.

He turned it over, eyes narrowing minutely. _There’s no bar code. It’s not the library’s. So a personal copy?_ The minimalistic cover and sparkling reviews in place of an actual blurb offered no information for the book’s contents. He began flipping to random pages.

The man regarded Stiles, fingers stilling at his keyboard. “Well, it’s… definitely interesting.”

Stiles cocked his head. He reached across no man’s land and handed the book to Derek, who accepted it with tentative hands. The younger sat back, not breaking his gaze. The meaning was clear: tell me more.

Derek leaned back. His swivel chair squeaked in alarm at the displacement.

“It’s good.” He shrugged, fingers fanning through the touch-softened pages.

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Woah. Slow down. That’s a lot of information to take in all at once.”

He caught a huffed ‘smart ass’ from the older male but let it go. Their light hearted banter could warp into…unproductive things. On the good side of the unproductive spectrum there was the possibility of an orgasm for one, if not both of them. But on the bad side, there was the chance of Derek still being too prickly to grasp the ‘lighthearted’ part of ‘lighthearted banter’ and casually say something Stiles would inevitably react to…and yeah. Not good.

“It’s…complex. And every time I read it, I catch something I’d missed before.” He set the book on top of his messenger bag to continue reading later.

Derek eyed the chaos in front of him. So much work to do… he looked from the papers to Stiles. Big, doe eyes focused solely on him; relaying through expression alone that he wanted to hear more.

Paperwork or Stiles.

His job or Stiles.

He shut the lid of his laptop and leaned forward. Stiles would always come first.

“It’s a coming of age book,” he added casually; hoping Stiles wouldn’t get the actual meaning.

With a knowing countenance, the teen seamlessly replied; “So, in Derek-speak, that means it’s definitely a teen book. Chalked full of all the YA genre tropes, right?”

The man glared. Not a ‘he means business’ glare. Just a good ole’ Derek scowl. Plenty of underlying ‘I shouldn’t’ve said that…I should _not_ _have_ said that’, which would have Hagrid cringing in sympathy.

“Oh, really?” Derek responded. Stiles assertion of the book was correct. Angst practically dripped from every page. But the teen didn’t need more fodder to feed his banter-cannon. 

The pale teen nodded enthusiastically, smile shining through what remained of Derek’s dark fog.

 “Yeah. I’m sure it’s a very trope-ridden novel. And I bet I can name three, just from what you’ve already said.”

Derek snorted. “What does the winner get?”

The younger male swiped over a ruby lip. “We’ll think of something.”

Stiles didn’t give him a chance to take apart the innuendo before he held up three fingers; intent on winning. He began folding a finger for every check on his invisible list. 

“I’m sure there’s Dysfunction Junction.” His middle finger went down when Derek didn’t offer any refuting words. He scratched his jean-clad leg. Nodding to himself he added, “Probably Insta-Love in there somewhere.” His index finger joined the middle. Only the thumb remained. 

His Cheshire grin returned. “And of course, because I’d expect nothing less, the whole plot is driven by some old fashioned Dues Angst Machina.”

“ ‘Dues Angst Machina’? That’s not even English.”

Stiles didn’t falter, knowing Derek was grasping at empty air. He waved a hand as he explained. “Angst is German for ‘fear’ or I guess you could go with the Norwegian/Dutch translation, which means ‘anxiety’-”

“Stiles, I think I’m very familiar with ‘angst’.”

It was probably safe enough for their routine of banter to commence so the younger male leaned back, fingers lacing behind his head. The picture of victory. 

“You _should_ be… considering your epic broods. ‘Angst’ would be a good title for your biography, actually.”

“I was talking about you. The actual teenager. An age group synonymous with the word,” Derek retorted.

Stiles opened his mouth slightly while half-cocking both eyebrows. Followed by his most haughty and affronted look. Like a Victorian Duchess if an acquaintance noted her recent weight gain. Or how her husband was spending an unusual amount of time at the cigar club with all of those pretty, young things with dresses barely below their ankles- _you’re getting off track here_ \- “I’m going to ignore that. Because I refuse to be a cliché,” the teen said, nose upturned at his boyfriend’s jab. Derek’s facial expression in response _was pointedly ignored_. 

“If you’ve had enough of derailing my explanation-”

“I derailed you?”

“-Dues Ex Machina is something unrealistic in a story that resolves situations. In Dues Angst Machina, it’s like some sadistic god causes a massive shit storm for the character, which makes him- _him?-_ ” Derek nodded. “-which makes the poor guy’s life miserable and angsty. So a seemingly god-incited, conga line of tragedies hit him. And these events spur the story and make up the plot.” 

A whispered ‘damn it’ crawled around the room. Right into Stiles’ ear.

His grin returned. “Sooo, this means I win.”

Derek leaned back, mirroring Stiles’ position. “Seeing as how I never officially agreed to this in the first place…”

“Der- _rekk_ ,” Stiles complained. A huff of playful frustration followed.

The stoney-man didn’t budge.

The teen groaned, hands slapping against his thighs. “You...you boner nazi,” he called, resisting the urge to throw all the paper clips he’d hoarded throughout the school day at the man- _no_ \- the cheater.

The insult broke Derek. He bit his lip to suppress the smirk growing there. Against his wishes, a breath escaped. The dam of pretended indifference had a crack.

Stiles honed in on the noise. He smiled with no teeth, which made Derek liken him to one of the Whos from the Dr. Seuss-created Whoville (except a hotter and more devious version. That look meant shenanigans).

“Does being a boner nazi amuse you?” The younger male leaned forward, matching each elbow to its corresponding knee.

The teen’s upper body obscured Derek’s view of his lap.

Stiles studied the man in front of him, who in turn, fixed both eyes on soft and bitable lips.

_Hmm. Seems like the good side of our unproductive spectrum might be implemented._

“You were so quick to drop out of our _pre-established_ bet-” He stood up, not missing the way Derek’s eyes darted to the closed door, confirming in relief that it was locked.

He trailed two fingers along cold metal as he walked around the desk.

“-you didn’t get to hear the winner’s reward,” Stiles lulled, reaching Derek’s side.

Strong hands covered the teen’s waist and wrist, pulling him down before any words could pass his grinning lips. And because Derek was a possessive bastard, he growled when the other tugged away.

Stiles laughed. “Derek, if you want me on your lap, you’re going to have to let up for a second.” His back was not agreeing with the stoop induced by Derek’s muscle-anchor. 

The hold didn’t loosen. Instead, for 0.8 of a second, Stiles had no control of his body. His brain didn’t have enough time to register the feeling of his feet not touching the ground. He let out a surprised breath when two sturdy thighs (and a considerably less sturdy chair) pressed flush against his backside. He adjusted his long, thin limbs; thighs bracketing Derek’s and hands resting on his broad shoulders.

Stiles put no juice behind the glare he aimed at his lover. The man only offered an animalistic grin in return (if he was staying with the animal comparisons, Derek would definitely be the wolf who successfully ate all the chickens and got away from the farmer too).

“You said something about my reward,” Derek asked, hands grasping the underside of Stiles’ thighs. Applying just enough pressure for the other to push back into it.

“ _My_ reward,” Stiles corrected, licking his lips. Pale fingers dug into Derek’s t-shirt.

The older male nodded as he echoed the words. “And what is _your_ reward?”

Stiles swallowed. His adam’s apple bobbed against the soft skin of his throat. “A kiss from the loser.”

Derek didn’t need to see if his ‘boner nazi’ ways had gotten to Stiles. His hands traveled further to squeeze the firm ass taking residence on his lap. The breath Stiles moaned from the unexpected groping must’ve been sacrilegious. He wanted more.

The teen choked on a breath when Derek thrust his embarrassingly erect cock against Stiles’ (to be fair, the man was wearing sweatpants that left _nothing_ to the imagination and the teen had on restricting jeans. He was definitely _not_ farther…along…than his teenaged partner. Nope. No way). 

Stiles folded his body further into Derek’s, little breaths escaping his parted lips. His words didn’t sound nearly as composed as he’d been trying for. “Are you going to give me my prize now?” 

 

There was no milk.

Stiles leaned further into the refrigerator, pushing aside the empty carton and fighting his way through about four containers of his father’s bologna. The meat was gross so the sheriff didn’t have to worry about Stiles eating the last slice and putting back the empty container. The same could not be said for milk- _So help me Cthulhu, I will find a way to murder past-Stiles for getting my cereal craving hopes up, the lazy bastard_.

He accepted that, no, there wasn’t a secret door leading to the milk-filled version of Narnia at the back of the fridge. He’d have to forgo the Kernel Clusters (‘Dad, this tastes nothing like Honey Bunches of Oats’).

He shut the door roughly. Condiments in the shelves shook and clanged against each other because they had to have fifty bottles of sauce for reasons. Stiles froze, not removing his fingers from the handle. His dad was back to sleeping with his bedroom door open. 

When not a creature (his slumbering father) stirred from the noise, he padded out of the kitchen. 

He had sought out food of his own volition. Progress. 

Stiles gripped the banister, feet attempting ‘mouse’ level of noise, instead of his usual ‘elephant herd’.

He whispered, “Successss,” as he closed the bedroom door. Placing both hands together, he scanned the room for something to occupy himself with because insomnia continued to be a thing.

In an Assassin’s Creed-esque belly flop, he leaped onto the bed; phone clasped between his fingers.

Derek being surrounded by teenagers caused him to pick up habits. Like the patented: ‘we won’t rest, until we’re fucking dead’ sleep schedule. He’d be awake. Probably.

 

        So are you handling the burden of your loss well?

Derek rolled his eyes.

        No, I’m a complete mess. How can I bear the weight of this great shame? 

He sat up, throwing the phone down. His bladder could no longer be ignored.

The sound of running water filled the quiet bathroom as Derek washed his hands with soap he did not remember purchasing (‘Winter Candy Apple?’ From Bath and Body Works? He never went within ten feet of that place. Though, admittedly, it smelled amazing. He took great joy in sniffing the soap but not without a paranoid look around).

Derek spared no looks at his chest in the mirror. He’d stopped noticing the burns years ago, especially since they’d almost faded into nonexistence.

He grabbed a navy towel when his nose had had enough of the sweet smelling foam. Green eyes scanned the bathroom.

A toothbrush with neon blue sides rested beside his own plain white one. Lavender and honey body wash peaked out from the edge of a grey shower curtain.

Derek held the towel tight, long after both hands were dry.

If he went to the bedroom, he’d find similar curiosities.

A drawer filled with clothing ten sizes too small. Mechanical pencils on the desk formerly too occupied with various instruction manuals (How To Not Go On A Murderous Rampage At Your Workplace: High School Teacher Edition). Derek didn’t remember moving them to the book shelf by his side of the bed.

He squeezed the towel.

_His_ side of the bed.

Which meant Stiles had a side (even though the teen was a damn octopus. The whole bed might as well of been his). When had that happened?

Derek hung the towel over a little bar.

There were traces of Stiles everywhere. 

Boxes of tea in the kitchen. A copy of Donnie Darko beside the TV.

The man rubbed his face, hunching further in on himself. The November air was chilly on his bare torso and the floor cold on his feet.

He stiffly walked to the bed, ignoring the glow of his phone’s screen in the dim room.

This wasn’t just a place to exist anymore. This was his home.

He looked at the other side of the bed. If he pressed his face into the sheets, it’d still smell like him (a misty day on the beach? A walk in the crisp morning air? _No, that’s still not it_ ).

The coach grabbed his laptop from the floor, flipping the lid open with an anger of unknown origins. His temper flared when he noticed the date: November third. The keys took a bashing while he went to the site Stiles always used. The empty loft filled with music.

He moved to the floor. The plan: work out his feelings by _working out._

 

Derek sat up. The sounds of his panting joined a song he didn’t recognize. Both knees popped as he stood. Stone floor Vs. human body. Lactic acid build up was a killer but he couldn’t be bothered to stretch his sore limbs. He sat heavily on the bed. Loud pants dissolved into a steady inhale/exhale as he woke the computer.

_“I cry Babel! Babel! Look at me now-”_

He shut off the Box website and fell back onto the bed. He’d clean the sheets later. Sweat cooled on his body and he hissed a breath as his skin prickled from the cold.

The music was gone. Emptiness saw an opportunity and came slithering back. Long tendrils from under his bed and the tall ceiling.

The silence had never bothered him before.

This was his home, right? Why did the silence bother him now? When he was in the bathroom thinking, everything had felt OK. He’d felt-

He felt…peace.

Because it was only a home when Stiles was there with him.

“..Fuck...”

 

Maybe the man wasn’t as immersed in the ‘sleep is for the weak’ lifestyle as Stiles had thought (although, he guessed that was a good thing. Derek + no sleep = Extra frowny grizzly bear with no moral compass).

The sheets were soft against his cheek. But not soft enough to fly him away to dream land where he didn’t have an evil voice in his head, worming into his brain that Derek didn’t _want_ to text him. Or he was tired of him. Or something.

Vibrations surged next to Stiles’ head and he hurriedly grabbed the phone, opening a new message from…Scott.

        Dudee u need to get plastic cups by monday the ones from the caf 

Count on his best friend to make zero sense at -he checked the time- two in the morning.

        …Why?

The reply was thankfully quick.

         Danny found out when coach hales bday is and everyone is going monday night to fill the lockerroom with cups of water for a surprise tues morning

Deciphering Scott’s language took three scans before Stiles completely understood the message.

Derek’s birthday was in less than a week. Four days. Ninety six hours. Five thousand and seven hundr-

How did he not know about his own boyfriend’s twenty sixth birthday? When the gap between them, until April, would be ten years. A whole decade.

His phone buzzed again. 

        So r u getting the cups?

 

He was running late.

Stiles pressed his foot to the gas pedal, propelling his Jeep to travel at a speed his father would not approve of.

The morning had been strange.

He’d crawled downstairs, not at all ready to face the day. His dad had been standing in front of the stove, whistling. _Whistling!_

All Stiles could manage out was, “Dad?” because surely, what he was seeing had to be another hallucination.

The man turned around and smiled. A thing of genuine delight. 

“I figured even I can manage pancakes,” he’d joked.

And the teen laughed. This was his father. He’d been missing for so long.

_“So come down from your mountain and stand where we’ve been-”_

He turned up the radio. 

_“-Press my nose up to the glass around your heart.”_

Derek’s birthday had to be special. It was the first one they would spent together.

He drummed his fingers on the wheel.

What would be special enough?

 

He wasn’t able to see Derek during the next few days. The older man was busy with whatever work a teacher had to do. After school was no good either. John had been taking the ‘turning over a new leaf’ thing seriously. He was working earlier shifts so he’d been getting home at the same time as the teen. Not that Stiles was complaining. Watching a baseball game was a lot better than what could’ve been happening.

His texts **from** Derek were sparse and his texts **to** went unanswered. The older man assured him everything was fine. He was just busy.

 

On the sixth, a day before his birthday, Stiles caught up to Derek.

He leaned against the metal of his coach’s desk, texting Scott about the whole cup and water thing. 

The silence must’ve been too much for Derek because music was humming through the room. 

_“Cause I’ll know my weakness, know my voice,_

_And I’ll believe in grace and choice._

_And I know perhaps my heart is farce,_

_But I’ll be born without a mask.”_

The song ended. Something slower and sadder came on. It sounded like The Antlers but he wasn’t one hundred percent.

Derek was tense. Tenser than usual at least. Not quite the same vibes as one of his ‘bad days’. But it was something.

Grasping for a smooth transition, Stiles pulled up the school’s website. Under the ‘faculty’ tab was a little maroon and white banner that read: “Coach Hale’s Birthday is the 7th so make sure he has a Grrrrrreat day!!”. He sniggered, making Derek look up. 

He thrust the phone inches from the man’s face, who backed up so he could focus on the text. His eyes widened. Something akin to horror shown in them.

Derek must’ve been perturbed by the cheesy announcement.

“So have any plans for your big day?” Stiles asked with an accompanying eyebrow waggle. His suggestive meaning was lost on Derek as he looked back down.

“Oh. Not really. Just another day,” Derek pointedly replied. He didn’t comment on Stiles’ suggestive tone.  

It dawned on Stiles that maybe making a big deal out of Derek’s birthday tomorrow wasn’t the best plan.

 

Stiles knelt over his purchases later that night. Next to the plastic bag were stacks of small, paper cups. Way too many. The cafeteria staff had given the scrawny teen disapproving looks as he shoved bundle after bundle into his bag. But they ultimately did nothing. _‘That is not my job’._

Should he even try to celebrate with the older man? His response had been…not good. Or at least not what Stiles had expected. Derek was terse. Recalcitrant, even

He was thinking the whole prank was a bad idea. He texted Scott just that.

Coach wasn’t exactly in the best of moods today. Maybe the whole cup thing isn’t a good idea.

Scott was slow in replying.

        Im changing ur name to dandruff in my phone

Stiles’ brow furrowed.

        Why?

The next message was quicker.

         because youre being a flake

As Stiles was typing ‘I don’t want to enrage the beast’, his phone buzzed again.

         dude I’m kidding. danny used his office aid status to get info. and coach called in for 2 personal days.

_Wait what?_

Stiles forewent replying to Scott and shot Derek a message.

         Are you ok?

He stayed up until three but his message went unanswered.

As did all of his messages the next day.

Stiles didn’t know what to do.

 

 

He was turning twenty six.

_He was turning twenty six._

Derek sat at his desk. Three days until his birthday. Every passing hour chiseled away at his already limited patience.

He was twenty six and dating a sixteen year old.

The man ruffled his hair. Stress had him pulling roughly at the dark strands.

When he was twenty, Stiles would have been ten. A ten and twenty year old dating would have been gross and illegal- When Stiles was twenty one, he’d be thirty one. _That’s still weird._ When Stiles was thirty, he’d be forty. _OK, that’s less weird._ When he was sixty, Stiles would be-

Numbers continued to fly through his head on the drive home. He’d just have to wait until Stiles was in his thirties so their relationship wasn’t wrong. _But how can it be wrong when it feels…this good?_

He was a cradle robber. How could he allow himself to fall in love with a child? 

He slammed a fist into the hard tile of his shower.

Stiles had enough going on, he didn’t need the added stress of a relationship with an asshole man-child who was _way_ older and oh look, happened to be his teacher.

Said student’s father was also the sheriff.

The sheriff.

The thought of the man made Derek’s blood boil.

It didn’t matter he was drinking less or, according to Stiles, wasn’t violent. An abuser was an abuser.

Stiles refused Derek’s help. Any discussion of the sheriff would end in silence or yelling. The older man didn’t know which was worse.

John’s officer status carried its own trouble. He had the whole station under his control. A cover up could happen, evidence lost. His father would charge him with kidnapping or harboring a runaway if Stiles tried to move in. And people would definitely question a teacher and student living together. Nothing would be worse than Stiles or Derek stepping forward and then have their claims falsified and then he’d be sent back home with that monster-

And because murder was usually frowned upon (and it would probably upset Stiles) he could do nothing.

He was powerless.

 

The knock came at ten past eleven.

It was the confident rasp of knuckles against metal that shook Derek out of his stupor. He dragged himself off the bed in a Dali-esque drip and walked to the loft’s entrance. Whoever had the moxie to knock on his door was not going to see tomorrow. Thunderclouds sheathed him in dark fog. He opened the door.

Stiles was standing there. A plastic bag and box of pizza balanced on one arm.

“I’m not good company right now.”

Stiles scoffed. _‘I’m having none of your avoidant bullshit’._ “You’re never good company. Now are you going to invite me in or leave me here, with the food?” Stiles shook the items in the crook of his arm for emphasis.

Derek stepped aside, making a sweeping motion with his hand. Stiles breezed past, ignoring the man’s sassy gesture. The smell of pizza and wind drifted into the loft.

Stiles dropped everything on the coffee table, shrugging off his jacket to further show the older man he had no plans of leaving.

Derek was being pulled in so many directions emotionally he didn’t have the capacity to deal with… _anything._ He didn’t notice Stiles sidling up to him. The teen’s cold fingers grasped Derek’s and led him to the couch.

He sat down heavily, content to let Stiles take over.

The younger male pushed a cold drink into his hand. He glanced at the beverage, then back at Stiles.

He shrugged at Derek’s inquisitive look. “My dad keeps beer in the garage.” Four other bottles peaked from the plastic sack. 

Derek didn’t look particularly pleased but he let it go. He seemed to be doing that a lot recently.

Stiles turned back to the table, kneeling down to dole out the pizza. There was a playful tone in his voice as he continued to defend his actions. “You know what? You’re so rude. Gosh. I’m trying to do something nice…” his voice trailed off, becoming a chiding grumble that reminded Derek of a mother scolding her ungrateful child.

He didn’t chase the thought of what the sheriff would do if the man discovered any missing alcohol. Thinking would lead to planning and planning to action and perhaps, by the end of the night, he’d be in jail. Which would benefit neither of them. _You shouldn’t put yourself at risk just because you think it’ll make me happy._

Derek opened the bottle. Cold liquid soothed the uncomfortable dryness in his throat.

Stiles handed Derek a paper plate with pizza. The pizza had every type of meat Dominoes offered. Derek’s favorite. Stiles took a plate similar to his. The older man knew by the end, he’d have a meat mountain piled there from his pick-apart eating habit. The younger male didn’t bother to go for beer. Derek’s expression said he wasn’t allowing it ( _so you’ll date the minor but letting them drink a beer with you is going too far? Yeesh.)_

They ate in silence. Grief was thick in Derek’s mind. But the teen’s presence was like a place of shelter in the heavy rain. He was the oxygen Derek needed after a week of smoke and toxic fog tainting his every breath.

Stiles turned on the TV.  For his comfort or Derek’s, the coach couldn’t be sure. The sound was almost inaudible. 

 

It wasn’t until a quarter to midnight when Derek started talking.

“My parents liked birthdays.”

“Derek, you don’t owe me anything.” Stiles’ legs were tucked underneath his body. With every movement, his upper half bobbed up and down slightly.

“No, I do. You deserve an explanation.” If he didn’t talk about it now, he’d lose courage and never talk about it. Then his next birthday would be the same and the next and the next. Forever continuing to shut down and ignore ignore ignore. And he did owe Stiles something. Something to explain why he was brushing him off.

Stiles didn’t say anything.

He took a breath and started again. “There were a lot of us; Laura, me, and Korra. And we had cousins who were almost siblings. But my parents still valued every birthday. They said it reminded them of the times before us and the times after. How we made their lives better and they treasured that. How each nine months of pain and anticipation were finally rewarded. And how the happiness, for them to come, wasn’t nearly as good as they’d expected. Fuck, I mean, I don’t know why. We gave them hell. All of us. But every time the day would roll around, they’d just get so loving. Saying that those days where we were born were the best. So once a year they wanted to thank us. Thank _us._ And show that we were their whole world.”

The TV had been turned off. Derek hadn’t noticed.

“And, and- when everyone left. When mom and dad died and Korra and everyone else who thought our lives were important. But Laura- she tried. She really did but it wasn’t the same. Mom used to wake us up early, before school- with presents and donuts and it really used to piss me off because I was a stupid kid who didn’t want to be woken up at five in the morning to singing and my mother of all people jumping on my bed with my father blowing one of those obnoxious whistles and I- I didn’t appreciate it. I didn’t know how much I’d miss it later.”

The teen pressed into Derek’s side, breaking the man’s gaze from the scratch on the coffee table. A scratch that’d been a product of poor judgement and a hard-bottomed gym bag with too many weights in it. Derek looked into Stiles’ eyes. So full of emotion. Love. Understanding. His hand found the teen’s and he squeezed. Stiles said nothing. They sat there, pressed thigh to thigh. The younger male’s arm was jammed between the couch and Derek’s back, massaging the tense muscles bunched there.

Derek’s leg bounced in incremental jerks. He rubbed his thumb over the bones and tendons of Stiles’ hand.  He couldn’t look into the wide, attentive eyes. The love and patience within them was too much. He would take shelter in the caressing gaze. Shut down and not bring up things from the past. He continued talking. To forget the dead was like killing them a second time. 

“Laura tried to do that once. The first year after the fire. I was turning fourteen or fifteen. That age where I understood nothing. Just that my happiness was gone and I was hurt and angry and I didn’t want to feel hurt and angry. She came in at five that morning with the stupid whistle. She had a plate of brownies on one arm and a couple of books in the other. The moment the whistle started, I screamed. I told her to leave. She wasn’t mom. She couldn’t replace her. Well, Laura wasn’t a passive person either so she screamed back at me. We ending up crying right there, on the floor. After that, we didn’t celebrate.” The man took a shaky breath in. His speech must’ve been rapid and rambling but Stiles never said a word. His calming touches never stopped. He squeezed Derek’s hand.

“And I never thanked her. For trying to get me to see my life had purpose. I never thanked her for trying to keep mom and dad alive. I was angry at her. I wanted her to let them die. I always thought, _you’re just making it more painful. Forget them. Forget all of them and we’ll be happy. Forget_ me _._ Why did she try so hard? I was just some angry kid and still she looked after me. She wasn’t that much older. She could’ve been so much happier but she let me pull her down too.” He tried to take a centering breath. It came as a choked sob. “Why did she try so hard?” he asked no one. Liquid warmth ran down his face in twin tracks.

Stiles moved his arm up Derek’s back, letting it rest behind his ear. Long, cool fingers ran through his hair.

More choked breaths followed and Stiles used his hold to pull Derek down, until his face rested on Stiles’ shoulder. He didn’t resist. He just wrapped both arms around Stiles’ waist and nuzzled his neck. He pulled the thin legs into his lap, needing to be closer. Tears stained the flannel Stiles wore. He pet the soft hair at the back of Derek’s head. His other arm wrapped around the muscular torso that trembled from the force of shaky breaths.

Derek cried into Stiles’ shoulder. The teen only rubbed his boyfriend’s back and carded nimble fingers through his hair. He offered no words. Words were futile and both of them knew it. The man clutched Stiles, breathing his scent.  He smelled like home and it made the tears come faster. He anchored himself to the warm sun, lavender, and fabric softener.

“And I never thanked her,” he repeated. 

Stiles held him tighter.

The clock on the cable box changed to 12:01.

 

Derek vaguely heard Stiles telling him to move to the bed. He only held on tighter, refusing to move from their position on the couch. Stiles breathlessly laughed and dusted a kiss on Derek’s forehead. He gave in, snuggling closer on the cramped sofa. The soft planes of Stiles’ face captivated Derek. He watched as the plush lips opened and closed with tiny sleep-breaths. Their chests rose and fell in time. He kissed Stiles’ cheek, moving to nuzzle the silky strands that fell in tufts over his forehead. His peaceful expression ushered Derek into a serene bliss. They slept facing each other, arms and legs tangled.

He was warm and comfortable. Everything moved and the man remembered feeling colder. He grabbed for the body leaving him. Stiles laughed and said ‘something, something, school’. Derek didn’t move and he might’ve fallen asleep because what seemed like a second later, the teen was kissing him again with minted breath and saying to go back to sleep. He did just that.

 

Derek woke up at eleven. There was a blanket over him that hadn’t been there earlier. Aspirin and a water bottle rested on the coffee table. A ring of water surrounded the base of the plastic. The only remnant of the condensation. Derek swallowed two pills for the headache Stiles somehow knew he’d have. The water was gone by the time he stood up. With slightly clumsy steps, he padded to the kitchen on the hunt for pizza. And that’s when he saw it. 

A tray of store bought M&M cookies with a crumpled card taped to the front.

The card had what Derek recognized as the anarchy wolf meme, complete with a red and grey ‘beach ball’ background. In all caps on the front it read: WE GON’ PARTY LIKE IT’S YO BIRTHDAY. He opened the flap to read the rest. NAKED. SCREAMING. COVERED IN BODILY FLUIDS. He snorted and wide eyes moved to a note scribbled in black pen.

_Look, in my opinion, the best thing you can do is find a person who loves you for exactly what you are. Good mood, bad mood, ugly, pretty, handsome, what have you. The right person is still going to think the sun shines out your ass. That’s the kind of person that’s worth sticking with._

_-Juno (that movie I know you secretly love)_

_P.S. I think you’re pretty great. Happy Birthday!!_

Another line was written in blue pen. Something added later than the quote.

_Thank you for letting me in._

Derek traced a thumb over the words. So simple, yet their meaning weighed heavy in his heart.

For the second time, he allowed himself to cry.

 

-Sometime Later-

_“This sadness will last forever.” -Vincent Van Gogh_

 

“Damn, you’re beautiful,” Derek had said. One of his hands stroked Stiles’ hair; the other propped against his cheek. The plant of his elbow in the mattress was not ideal but his view of Stiles was well worth any discomfort.

The body parallel to his stiffened briefly before turning from school work that took up the bottom of the bed. The pencil was still in Stiles’ hand but was no longer being subjected to his destructive mouth.

He stopped pumping his legs. An unconscious habit that made Derek think of some ‘made for teen’ movie with a girl laying on her stomach, using the phone, and kicking her legs absently. Sometimes Stiles was just so obliviously _cute_ and Derek’s inner voice would get weird. 

Stiles gave him a outlandish look. 

_Did I say something wrong?_ Maybe his tone had been too caustic. He leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss to the teen’s pale temple. He nuzzled the soft skin there. The impromptu affection had the teen looking back to his book with red heat painted unevenly on his face. The man placed a hand on his lover’s slender back. He was used to the bones that pressed into his palm. 

Derek would realize later in the shower why his comment hadn’t exactly been well received.

Stiles didn’t think he was beautiful.

 

The next day was when Derek promised himself he’d confront Stiles.

They were on a date. A simple outing on the reserve. They’d gone out before. In the safety of theaters and restaurants two towns away. Far from anyone who would recognize them.

They’d ended up on a cliff overlooking Beacon Hills. Lights blinked on as the sun set.

Stiles had said, ‘ohhh pretty’, and sat down to watch the sky. Varying shades of pink and orange colored their surroundings. He commented on how cheesy this was. Derek replied with something that made Stiles huff but neither of them really cared how cliche everything was.

The two were in companionable silence, waiting for the sun to disappear over the horizon. Well, Stiles was. There were more beautiful things that caught Derek’s attention. Light sprayed the teen’s face in color. The reflection turned his eyes from amber to the scenery around them.

Derek wanted to remember every detail.

A butterfly fluttered in front of the two. Its body glinted in the fading light.

“That’s weird,” Stiles murmured. There shouldn’t have been any butterflies. It was the wrong time of year. He coerced the yellow and black insect onto an extended finger.

He smiled when the butterfly walked the length of its new perch. His finger didn’t interest him (‘Timothy’, he named it). With a flop of his sheeny wings, Timothy flew away. Stiles dropped his hand to the grass beside him.

“They can’t see their wings,” Derek said; struck with a need to have his earlier comment explored. He remembered reading the fact somewhere. Maybe on the internet. Or the lid of a Snapple. “It’s the way their eyes are positioned. So they can’t see their wings. They go their whole lives without seeing them.” He let out a breath. “Without seeing how beautiful they are.”

Stiles half-heartedly scoffed. Twin pools of honey shined with light from the setting sun. “Derek, you know that’s a myth, right? Vertebrates need to move their eyes and heads. And the compound eyes of a butterfly provide them with almost 360 degree vision. So they can probe into flowers and at the same time, detect threats from behind.”

He rolled his eyes at Stiles’ informative rant. _I’m trying to make a point, damn it._ “–just go with it, Stiles- if  the ‘butterfly’ can’t see how beautiful he is, then he’ll go his whole life believing he’s ugly.”

The teen raised a brow. “Well, why doesn’t the butterfly just ask one of his little butterfly friends what he looks like?”

Derek searched for words. “What if-OK. What if, instead of his ‘butterfly friends and family’ telling him the truth, that he’s beautiful, they put him down? They see his wings and colors and out of anger or jealousy or some twisted desire to hurt yo…him…they lie. They say ‘worthless’ and ‘ugly’ and his special markings are stains. What if he goes his whole life thinking he’s this…abomination, when actually, he’s incredibly amazing?”

Stiles stared at him, eyes squinting. “Incredibly amazing, huh?” He stood, flinging the handful of grass that had fallen victim to his distracted fidgeting. “He could just look in a mirror.” 

The slim teen stretched both arms above his head. “He’s very familiar with mirrors.” His voice was barely above a whisper.

The last of the sun’s light dissolved, enveloping the two in shadow.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A foreSHADOW. Haha, that's just a little joke. We like to have fun here.  
> This lil bit here on the end is for your benefit because oh boy, the next chapter is going to be a monster.  
> It'll be the finale. After that, there's an epilogue (which will make up for me mercilessly torturing Stiles) and then we're done.  
> If you'd like, leave a comment telling me what you'd like to see/ what you're most excited to see.  
> As always, thank you for reading!! I appreciate your support :)


	7. To take arms against a sea of troubles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's sad and awful but hey, there is smut in the end so that makes up for it right??

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like everyone to know that the 2 of these 29k+ chapters were written using Notepad because my subscription to Word expired. It was so painful.  
> But I did it!!  
> I hope you enjoy the finale of our journey together!

Derek had come across a chess term once upon a time.

Kotov syndrome. It described a situation where the player thinks for awhile but does not find a clear path, then running low on time quickly makes a poor move. It had real life application.

Derek was a frequent sufferer.

He had all this time to think about what to do. What to say/ how Stiles would react in turn. But when it came time, he panicked and did the wrong thing.

Contrary to popular belief, Derek was not a complete idiot. He wasn't an unobservant brick wall. He knew Stiles wasn't doing well. Of course he did. The long sleeves. The constant thrum of manic energy seemingly buzzing in him at all times; from anxiety or Adderall or both, he wasn’t sure. The perpetual dark circles. And the fact he'd lost three pounds, give or take.

Something happened to exacerbate his already fragile mental health. Something Derek wasn't going to come straight out and ask. He could, technically speaking. Casually ask him, ‘ _hey, are you slipping again?’_

Because it'd gone over _so well_ last time.

It'd been a gradual change.

November had passed.

He started eating semi-normally whenever they shared a meal together. At the school or the loft or Stiles' house. Derek couldn't say what his eating habits were like when he wasn't there.

The days at Stiles' own home were rare. John wasn't taking as many late shifts so he had to be home when his dad was. Stiles said he was turning over a new leaf.

December came. He'd gained eight pounds. That's what Derek would have guessed (asking Stiles weight-related questions was deep in The Off Limits Chest). Another twenty five and he might have been considered a low but healthy weight for his height. He'd just started to lose the unhealthy, gaunt hollow of his cheeks.

_On second thought, make that thirty._

Stiles seemed to be slowly getting better.

The little lines on his arms faded from an angry purple to pink. Some even white.

Derek couldn't say for sure what state the other parts of his body were in.Taking any of his clothes off was A Big No. After his blow up when they were first together, about the whole self harm thing, the man understood. He knew what it was like to have scars and insecurity prevent the intimacy nudity brought.

Then February came.

An invisible switch flipped in Stiles' mind. And that switch had been stuck on ever since. All the progress he'd made was slowly slipping way. Derek used the word 'relapse’, but only in his mind. If Stiles heard it, it'd make him feel bad. Or he'd just deny having a problem in the first place. Neither would be good.

　

"Can you hand me the remote?" Derek asked.

They were free to hang out at Stiles' house because it was a late night for John.

"Sure." Stiles' hand brushed Derek's as he handed the remote over.

Derek changed whatever animal program that'd been on. "Your fingers are icicles."

Stiles looked at his hands. He smiled, proceeding to waggle them in front of Derek’s face. "Why don’t you warm them up?"

Derek sighed in exasperation, taking Stiles’ hands anyway.

Stiles smirked. "You know, if you wanted to hold hands, you could’ve just asked."

The man wanted to make use of Stiles' complete attention. "Is everything OK-" he searched for the words. "-with your dad?"

Stiles' eyes did their dance. "Same as ever."

Derek squeezed the thin hands in his own. "That's specific."

He shrugged. "I try."

Derek pressed for more. "He hasn't...done anything recently?"

Stiles pulled his hands back. "Just drop it, yeah?"

"We have to talk about this."

"And we will," he stood up and lowered himself onto Derek's lap. The older man's hands moved to his slim hips. "Just not right now."

Derek pressed his forehead to Stiles', fingers tightening on his waist. "When, then?"

Stiles began rubbing his face against Derek's stubbled jaw.

"Stiles."

The teen pulled away to plant kisses on the side of Derek's mouth.

_Fuck._

He wound his fingers through Stiles' hair.

 

 

          Scott is coming over on Saturday so no play time

Surprisingly Derek responded.

           OK.

          Shouldn’t you be asleep?

Stiles looked at the time. Almost one in the morning.

          Um no

Derek was quick to respond.

          You sure?

Stiles' smile was unfaltering.

           Yep. I’m a free man. I go to sleep when I want

Stiles could see the other man’s eye roll.

          Whatever you say.

_I am affronted._

           You know what? Go hide under a bridge, you grumpy old troll

_Take that._

           Resorting to name calling is a defense mechanism meaning you find my point valid.

He simply typed:

          :P

He readjusted his pillow.

          Mature. Really fitting the title ‘man’.

He couldn’t help replying:

           :P

Derek was probably shaking his head. The man replied:

           Case and point.

Derek sent another text.

            Are you OK?

_That’s a lovely conversation segue._

           Yeah. Why?

_What's your plan here?_

           I’m just making sure. Now go to sleep ‘free man’.

He double texted.

           I’ll do what I want

           Which may include sleeping.

 

Derek stared at his phone. His bed was cold without the teen in it.

He couldn't force Stiles to talk. Until the time he was ready, Derek could only love him.

 

Scott had the gravity hammer. He'd killed Stiles twenty six times in a row.

The teen had a fantastic plan to turn the tide. Scott had a plasma grenade that screwed everything.

Stiles stared in heartbreak as his limp body blew across the screen.

Scott exploded in a fit of laughter at his friend's expression.

"You think that’s funny?" Stiles asked. The display read ‘Blue: 27. Red: 0’.

Scott laughed with no noise. He held up a hand; thumb and index finger barely touching. _‘Only a little’._

Stiles displayed his best bitch face. "I’ll remember this."

The brunet took a breath in, laughter dying down. "After all this victory, I’m kind of thirsty."

Stiles turned to the screen. "There’s some bleach in the kitchen."

Scott lost it again.

He decided to take mercy on Stiles. They switched to CoD and the playing field was evened.

"Did you hear about Jackson?" Scott asked, not taking his eyes off the screen.

His only class with Jackson had been Biology and the blond had to transfer out after shit hit the fan with harassment. "No, what happened?"

The teen caught Scott's shrug in his peripheral. "I hadn’t seen him around for a few days. I heard he came back from suspension. He almost got expelled."

"What’d he do to get suspended again?"

"Told an administrator to fuck off. Something really dick-y, apparently."

"Jackson pulling a dick move? Unheard of. Seriously, dude, my brains? All over that wall," he threw a thumb behind him, indicating the wall covered in posters at his back.

Scott’s smile was bright from his profile. "Shut up. He has to take anger management now. That's the only way he can stay in school."

The plastic button-sounds of controllers filled the room. "Wow. Jackson actually going to anger management…" Stiles head-shotted Scott. The kill cam played across the screen.

"Dude, I know. It’s weird."

They started another round.

Everything was going fine. Stiles was kicking Scott’s ass.

"Have you seen that jif of the ocean dog meeting the land dog? It's funny."

Stiles’ ear prickled. "Wait, what’d you say?"

"Have you seen that jif-"

"It’s gif."

Scott squinted his eyes. "No way."

"It stands for graphics interchange format."

"Yeah, but it’s _j_ if."

"Oh. Really? I’ll just go to the zoo and see the jorillas and on the way home I might pick up some jrapes."

Scott laughed and clapped him on the back. "That makes sense. You’re right."

Stiles nodded. Satisfied. "Damn straight."

Then Scott’s phone rang. A custom tone. _"It's a love story-"_

He lifted his butt off the carpet to free his phone. He didn't even have the decency to look apologetic for the song. _"Baby, just say yes-"_

"Hey, baby...-Wait…your dad is gone?...All day?"

He sent Stiles a pleading look. And because he was the best friend in the entire world, he took mercy on the horny teenager. "Get outta here. Her dad’s psycho and an empty house is an empty house."

Scott slapped him on the back, almost jarring the controller out of his hands. He told Allison he’d be over in ten minutes. She said something and Scott looked at him again, mouthing ‘you’re the best’.

He shut off the console.

 

Stiles was left in his room. He flopped onto his back, feet still on the floor. The crook of his knees was on the edge of the mattress. If the room hadn't been filled about two feet deep in water, he'd get a ball or something to toss into the air like the angsty teens in movies. He kicked his legs, creating his own waves.

Stiles stared at the dots on the ceiling. He’d been counting until he came across a form in the dots. He propped himself on one arm and squinted. It looked like the brass pendant his mom used to wear. He stood on his bed, stretching to the ceiling to touch the formation.

There was no mistake.

He jumped down to grab a marker and repeated the process in reverse until he was precariously balanced on his headboard, tracing around the pattern. He had one hand braced against the ceiling.

He pulled back to examine his work. No matter how he looked at it, it was the same.

A rhombus main body with two upside down ‘L’s sprouting from the apex.

_"This was my grandmother's pendant."_ She had explained, one hand pressed to the brass charm. She wore it everywhere. As far as he was concerned, that was his mom's personal symbol. It represented her.

There was a psychological phenomenon where an image was perceived as significant. Pareidolia.

Human brains were weird.

He threw the marker somewhere and hopped down.

_We see what we want to see._

　

Stiles had a thigh gap.

He hadn’t noticed until he’d gotten out of the shower Monday morning. He stared into the full length mirror at his body.

There, legs together, his thighs didn’t touch. And he- he didn’t know what to think of that.

His rational mind was set on high alert. If a person didn’t have a natural thigh gap, where the pelvis/his was a certain length apart, then it was a sign of malnutrition.

The other voice was louder. And Stiles liked what it said more.

_Progress. This is good. So good._

Probably Shouldn’t Listen To had him cheering his progress.

He slid on underwear back in his room. The carpet was wet.

He looked down, lifting up a foot. There was a sloshy indentation from the soaked floor. He hadn't noticed the water trickling from the ceiling. Running from the vents. He blinked.

The water was at his ankles.

He jumped back.

_Not now. Please not now._

But it didn't matter what he wanted. It never did.

Stiles screwed his eyes shut.

The waves hit him bodily. He sat on his bed, head between his knees. The constant threat of falling into the churning drink was one misstep away. It was a full ten minutes before his water-filled world stopped tilting.

Because anxiety and depression didn't just stay at home when he told it to, the water always managed to find him. It tethered to his back, following his every step. Hanging over his head. That morning, a panic attack in his bedroom became a panic attack in the school parking lot.

He breathed in through his mouth. Held it for five seconds. He let it go.

It wasn’t working.

Stiles recited numbers in his head. Something to take his mind off of the freezing water.

_The Fibonacci sequence: zero, one, one, two, three-_

Another violent tilt. His lower body was drenched. He shivered.

_Pi: three point one four one five nine-_

His stomach heaved from the roiling tide.

_OK. Um- Square root of Pi: one point seven seven two four five-_

His breathing started to quicken. He blinked away the blotches of colors in his vision.

If he could just make it to a restroom, he could calm down. Purge, maybe. He'd had a granola bar. Maybe that's why he felt sick.

He just had to walk inside. Without incident.

Stiles roughly estimated the distance from his Jeep to the nearest toilet inside.

He did not like the number he came up with.

_Fuck it._

He put the keys back into the ignition and drove out of the parking lot.

 

The Burger Joint might've been just another cog in the capitalist machine but their curly fries were damn good. He pulled into the parking lot, mouth watering. He was going to purge when he got home anyway. And he _really_ wanted some greasy potatoes.

He shoved fries into his mouth, one hand on the wheel. If his dad found out he'd skipped again...

He didn't continue with 'what ifs'.

Stiles threw up twice when he got home. Once on purpose.

He sat at his desk after another shower with an empty stomach. At least one of his problems was solved.

Biology and English couldn't wait any longer.

He highlighted a sentence in yellow. His head was pounding from the pressure purging inflicted.

He looked to the ceiling and spit the bright cap out of his mouth. With only slight difficulty, he caught the cap in his other hand.

Fleeing a situation or place only further cemented the fear and anxiety. Everytime he fled, he was conditioning his body to _avoid avoid avoid_.

His flight/fight/freeze responses must've been broken.

 

His dad got off work at four that day.

He walked in with a smile on his face and a bag in hand. John's sobriety lulled Stiles into a false sense of security. It was a cycle.

He handed the bag to Stiles. "Here, kid, this is for you."

He opened the plastic sack. Inside were packages of candy: Skittles, Warheads, and Laffy Taffy. Stiles’ favorite. "Thanks, dad," he said, confused but grateful.

John smiled patted him on the shoulder. "No problem. I thought you could use some crap food," walking away he added, "because God knows you don't keep any in the house."

He ate it all that night. Out of guilt, he purged. Then felt guilty because his dad had bought it for him.

It was another cycle. That's all life was. One shitty, endless cycle.

 

His sleep was short lived that night.

The ghost of his mother's smile haunted him.

He'd almost heard her voice. A mere whisper of her gentle tone.

He sat on the edge of the bed, gasping.

Rain poured from the ceiling.

　

          WAKE UP, FUCKTRUCK. IT'S YOUR BOYFRIEND.

Derek blinked once. He then proceeded to melt into a fit of laughter. Stiles could be at the bottom of a ravine with thirty feet of shit above him and he'd still make some ridiculous remark about having a 'shitty day'. It never ceased to amuse him.

          What an interesting text to wake up to.

Stiles probably developed his sense of humor as an aversion tactic. Or maybe it was ADHD. Or both. But as long as he did it, as long as he was laughing and wisecracking, Derek knew everything would be fine.

         My dad is at work until nine

The man sat up in bed.

         I'll be over in fifteen.

　

Stiles dumped his bag onto the floor three minutes after the final bell.

Lydia didn’t look up from her phone. Her maroon nails tapped the screen. "You’re late."

Stiles picked up his water bottle, glancing at the students around them. "A wizard is never late." He drank the remains of his water. "He arrives precisely when he means to."

"Pretty sure that excuse didn’t work for Gandalf when he was late in high school."

Stiles raised his eyebrows (who knew Lydia was into LotR?) and mocked her in a high pitched, mumbled voice. "And Derek’s not even here yet. So there’s no proof I was late."

"Really?" She sounded unimpressed.

He set his bag on his lap, successfully extracting a pencil from the bottomless beast. "Pictures or it didn’t happen," he said innocently.

Lydia side eyed him, ‘hmming’ disapprovingly. She didn’t comment on Stiles using the coach’s first name. It was too late to train him out of the habit.

Derek walked in two minute laters. "OK. Break’s over. Open to the last chapter…"

There was an activity sheet fifteen minutes into class. Groups of two were supposed to answer questions on whether a certain risk was worth a certain reward.

Stiles’ eyes skimmed the paper that’d been passed to him.

_Question 1: Sally has a four year old Prius that she’s paying off in monthly installments. She entered a contest from the auto dealership she originally bought her Prius from. If Sally can make five free-throws out of ten, she gets the latest model of a car of her choosing. If she loses she must pay whatever she has left on her car loan in a lump sum within a month._

_Sally had better have some mad basketball skills._

Stiles and Lydia filled out the work sheet with ease and sass.

The last question was individual: make your own risk/reward scenario and answer whether or not it’s worth it.

Stiles chose the whole ‘honey from an active been hive’ cliché (he never said he was an overachiever).

"You’ve been…off…lately," Lydia said, green pen dancing across the page in graceful swipes.

Her question was going to a party or studying for a test the next day in a moderately difficult class.

He bit his eraser, glancing sideways. "How so?"

She tucked a lock of curly hair behind her ear. "Unlike the rest of the cretins here, I'm not an idiot. I know something is wrong with you," she said bluntly, voice low.

He drummed his fingers on the table. "Well, thanks."

Lydia’s eyes flicked to his. When she realized he was affronted, she rolled her eyes. "It was an observation, not a judgement."

The teen turned forward, biting his lip. He caught the movement of her setting the pen down. She took out her cellphone, angling her body towards Stiles. To anyone else, it would look like the Queen shielding her private messages from the school weirdo. In a softer, but equally quiet voice, she said: "Listen, I’m the last one to judge on unhealthy behaviors." _When I’m sad, I just have a lot of sex. With people who I probably shouldn’t._

He nodded to her in understanding.

"I’m not going to lecture you -but- I want you to be safe. OK? Promise me you’ll be safe."

Stiles swallowed around a lump in this throat. He nodded. Thunder echoed through no one’s head but his. "I promise."

He only wished he’d been telling the truth.

No one else took notice the rain pelting the windows. Loud and violent, despite the sunny winter sky.

 

"Have you and Derek had sex yet?"

Stiles put his tray on the table and glanced around. "Erica, be quiet."

She put her hands up. "I was just wondering."

He looked down at the apple slices on his tray. "And no, we haven’t," he answered, picking up a piece of fruit.

The blonde leaned closer to him. "Are you kidding me? You’re going out with that _God_ and you haven’t tapped it yet?"

Stiles kept his gaze firmly locked on his water bottle. His face heated. "I don’t think he wants to do _it_ with a me."

Boyd kept his eyes to his phone, giving them some semblance of privacy for which Stiles was eternally grateful.

Erica wasn’t letting it go. "Dude, ask him then."

He groaned before looking up at her. "But what if I do and he says no? That’d be…really embarrassing."

She considered that. "Well, what if he says yes?"

"That’s even worse. I’m a virgin here, Erica. What if I do something stupid or awkward? Would you want _him_ , God among men, to witness an inexperienced virgin?."

Erica sucked in a breath through her teeth. "But, you must do _other_ stuff, right?" she asked, eyebrows dancing suggestively.

"Of course." His cheeks were hot.

"And everything’s good there…right?"

"Yes, oh my gosh, yes Erica."

"Well, if you’re good at _that,_ you should be fine with sex."

"That stuff is immensely different than sex, Erica. Rock," he lifted up a fist. "Hard place," his other hand joined the first in the air. "Me," he stuck his head between the ‘hand’ made rock and hard place.

Erica rolled her eyes. "You’re being a tad over-dramatic."

Stiles crossed his arms. Most certainly not pouting. "You’re not the one doomed to exist in virgin-purgatory."

She patted him on the back in mock sympathy. "Sucks to suck."

"Shove off," he said, with an accompanying bird.

She tilted her head back and laughed.

 

 

One of his last hours was an independent study period. Stiles moved through the churning halls. His destination was the library. Scott said he’d be there.

He made it four minutes later. Scott was already seated. He nodded his shaggy head in greeting. A pencil in hand and open history book in front of him. Stiles recognized the look of fake working anywhere.

"What’s up?" Stiles asked, throwing his bag on the wooden table.

"The sky," Scott answered with a growing smile.

Stiles looked appalled. "Oh no, I’m rubbing off on you."

He unpacked his Calculus homework to at least make it seem like they were there to get things done.

Ten minutes into sixth hour, Scott started his whispered conversations. "Hey, I need help with something."

"Yeah?"

His face flushed. Immediately Stiles’ mind jumped to something Allison related.

"She wants to try"- Scott cast a paranoid look around the library before lowering his voice even more, "-…butt stuff…"

Stiles blinked. "Dude, too much information."

Scott slumped back in the plastic chair. He fumbled a pencil between his nervous fingers. "Well, I need to talk to _someone._ "

Stiles shook his head. He looked back to his open notebook. "It’s just…out of the blue, you know?"

"This is not out of the blue! This is smack dab in the middle of the blue," Scott stage-whispered. He hit his fist in the other palm for dramatic effect.

Stiles looked at the other occupants of the library; two elderly librarians, a group of three with head phones in. Stiles did a double take. Hadn’t there been two girls…? He nodded to himself when his eyes fell on the dark, forgotten corner of the library. Make out station.

Well, at least no one would over hear Stiles explaining to his straight, male friend the dynamics of ‘butt stuff’.

Stiles gave him a look in response that said: _"Please elaborate."_

Scott shrugged, rapidly tapping the writing end of his pencil on the table, leaving tails of silver graphite on the light surface. "You know, I was curious, so I asked her about maybe…doing anal…and she said whatever I stick in _her,_ she gets to stick something of equal size in _me_."

Stiles clasped his hands and propped both elbows on the table. He rested his forehead on his waffled fingers. He took a centering breath. "So let me get this straight: you want to do anal with her. But you don’t want something up _there_ when it’s your turn _._ "

Scott flung his hands in the air, narrowly letting go of the pencil in the process. "Yeah!"

"Did you stop to consider the fact that maybe _she_ doesn’t want something up there?"

Scott put on his confused face. "I mean, she never exactly said no…"

Stiles rested his chin on his fists. "That answers my question. Here’s your solution: don’t put it in _her_ if you don’t want something in _you._ " He opened a palm as he said, "Or you could always just lie back and think of England."

The brunet ignored the last part and fell back into his chair. He let out a breath and nodded. "That’s what I thought."

Stiles looked back down to his math notes. With a playful tone, he said: "Glad that’s over with. Next time, go ask your mom. She’s a nurse. She could probably give you some tips-"

Scott’s face instantly darkened three shades. He pressed his palms flat against both ears. "Lah lah lah, I can’t hear you."

"OK, I’m done," Stiles said, before Scott was permanently scarred by the thought of his mom saying words like, ‘lube’, ‘rectum’, and ‘prostate’.

Scott lowered his hands but his face remained screwed into a grimace. A shiver ran through his body. "Uh, my mom and the butt talk…" He made a gagging noise.

The teen smirked, looking back down to 'work' on his assignments.

 

They were in Derek's office after school. Stiles supposed he could've been working on Biology make up work but Buzzfeed was so much more interesting.

Stiles chewed on the end of his hoodie string, knees bouncing at a dizzying pace.

"Shut up."

Stiles looked at the coach. The string fell from his mouth. "I didn’t say anything."

"You’re thinking. Loudly. It’s annoying."

"I can’t help it," he said defensively.

Derek used the papers in his hand to gesture in a circular motion. "Just stop."

Stiles leaned back, raising an eyebrow. His doe eyes sparkled with mischief. "Just stop thinking? Sorry Derek, that would require death."

The older man shook his head. "People do it all the time."

"That's true. You, of all people, can attest to that."

Derek threw his pen. Stiles ducked out of the way, giggling like a child. The man couldn't help smiling too.

Stiles went back to doing whatever on his phone.

Derek stared at him. Dark circles rested under his amber eyes. He’d lost another two or so pounds.

He was deafened by all of the words they were not saying.

　

Stiles stared longingly into the fridge. He didn’t plan on eating anything. Didn’t mean he couldn’t fantasize. He grabbed a water bottle before making his way upstairs. The twenty two step climb left him panting and dizzy.

From the bathroom cabinet he grabbed a bottle of Benadryl.

He sat on his bed and shook six pink pills into his palm. He swallowed them all in one go.

As an afterthought he plugged in his phone and left it on the nightstand.

Stiles flopped onto his stomach. A pillow made its way into under his chin before he passed out.

　

　

The sheriff must have gone to work early. Probably sometime around three AM.

Stiles sat up in bed, knowing already he’d slept in.

The sun was leaking in through the blinds he forgot to close.

He must have gone to work early because if it was past eight in the morning and he found Stiles still in bed he’d have a conniption.

The teen grabbed his phone, only to find it was dead. Stiles tugged the charging cord and it followed his pull without resistance.

_Fuckkk._

He leaned over and plugged the charger into the wall.

Five minutes passed before he turned on his phone.

He had three messages from Erica. And two texts from Derek. One a cute good morning and the other a where are you. He responded to both before reading Erica’s.

          batmannnnn.

          DUDE. you haven’t been missing this much school for a while now.

          i worry.

He rubbed a hand over his face. Could he just pretend he never saw the messages? Just delete them? _'Sorry, Erica, I don't know what happened. But I never got your messages.'_

          Erica, I’m fine. Just haven’t been sleeping very well. You don’t need to worry about me.

He sent another text to divert attention.

         You should be worried about Boyd, though. He’s not doing very well in Calc. He could use some Erica magic on his homework

She replied quickly.

         if you say so. and yes, Boyd will be getting that grade up. i will not let him fail.

How long could he skip without the school calling his dad?

         Such a good girl friend.

Sometimes they were on top it, sometimes not. But if his dad found out...

         i try. you better be at school tomorrow or i’m coming over there.

         As you wish, Queen Erica.

 

He supposed since he was home he could spend some time cleaning.

Stiles rifled under the kitchen sink. Where were the trash bags?

He moved a bottle of bleach. His eyes widened.

He pulled out a half full bottle of vodka. It was covered in dust. He leaned back on his heels.

Maybe his dad had forgotten it was there.

He looked around.

So he wouldn't notice if...

Stiles stood up, bottle in hand.

He spent the rest of the day alternating between Youtube, cleaning, and avoiding the occasional pool of water that appeared on the floor.

　

They were watching a video the next day in Economics. Derek was in a shitty mood because he’d stayed up all night watching Game of Thrones and live-texting Stiles his reactions, which had been immensely entertaining.

Continuing with the risk/reward theme, they were watching a documentary on the basic theory behind gambling and the people who played professionally: is what Stiles would say to his father if he happened to ask what they did in class that day.

It was actually Casino Royale. The James Bond movie that had something vaguely to do with risk/reward if you squinted. Stiles assumed the movie hadn't been approved as a teaching aid.

Just as Le Chiffre was making a deal with the Ugandan freedom fighter Obanno, his phone buzzed against the black table top. He picked it up, noting how the coach had slipped out of the room. Probably to get coffee to wake his sour ass up.

It was Scott.

         Hey I forgot to tell u that in PE yesterday Jackson was asking about u

Stiles put a hand to his forehead. He dimmed the screen enough to reply.

         What did he ask?

Lydia took no notice of him texting because she was doing the same thing.

          I dunno just if we were still friends and if u wanted to talk to him

Stiles hurriedly tapped the screen. Lydia perked up as she sensed his growing anxiety.

          What did you tell him??

Lydia got closer and mouthed ‘what’s wrong’. He shook her off.

          Well first I told him to go fekk himself but he kept going so I just said u would probably be OK with it

Waves crashed through the desks, wiping away papers and jostling tables.

Stiles fought the urge to slam his phone down. He turned to Lydia. She was looking at him curiously.

"If I murdered Scott, do you think I’d immediately go to jail? Or would they have a lengthy trial and then after a few months haul me off? Taking into account age and who my father is ," he asked, whispering voice growing pointed from stress.

"In holding immediately. With either life in jail or the death penalty," she deadpanned.

He gritted his teeth. "I think it’s worth it."

Lydia ran her palms flat against the table top. "What did the love sick puppy do to incur your wrath?"

He used his index finger to slide the phone her way. He watched her perfectly made up eyes widen as she read the text.

She slid the phone back to him, staring forward at the projector screen with James Bond doing some impressive parkour.

Lydia propped her elbows on the table. She ran her thumb over a pink lip. "What a fucking…" She turned to Stiles. "He wouldn’t try anything again. Not with expulsion hanging over his head."

He nodded, trying to believe her.

 

Stiles sat down, looking into the faces of Allison and Scott. "Bike troubles?"

Scott angrily mashed through his school-grade macaroni and cheese. "Yes."

Allison laughed at her boyfriend's pout. "It'll be fixed by tomorrow," she offered.

Erica and Boyd nodded at him and went back to doing whatever on a laptop.

Scott still pouted but he sounded less down trodden when he replied, "Yeah, I guess." Something clicked in his mind. "Oh, about that Jackson thing...".

"The thing where you threw me under the bus because he was annoying you? That Jackson thing?" Stiles took out a bag of pretzels.

Scott huffed. "I didn't _throw you_ , it was more of a..."

"Gentle nudge?" he suggested.

His eyes lit up. "Yeah! But seriously dude, it's fine. He won't try anything."

Allison fiddled with a grape. "Don't worry, his parents would kill him if he was expelled."

Stiles sighed. "I can only hope."

His phone vibrated on the table. It was from Derek.

       Have lunch with me?

Allison and Scott were making eyes at each other. He kissed her.

Stiles made a gagging noise. Their lips connected at the same time Scott lifted his middle finger, which made both Stiles and Allison laugh.

       I thought you said you were busy

Erica and Boyd were still sharing a pair of headphones and pointing excitedly at the computer's screen.

       I’m not now.

He texted 'alright', before packing his half empty bag of pretzels into his backpack. He shrugged on his bag and stood up. Erica waved to him.

Scott pulled away from Allison with a (really) gross suction noise. "Where're you going?"

"Somewhere where I'm not surrounded by your pheromones."

Allison's face turned red and Scott swatted at his hip. He walked out of the cafeteria.

　

There was an anit-bullying assembly at the end of the day. Stiles had zero plans of attending.

Derek was one step ahead of him.

Stiles was walking the halls, vigilant for any policing teachers. He was heading to his hide out in the library when a silent tap on his shoulder made him freeze. His heart pounded. He turned to see Derek.

The teen let out a breath. "Dude, you just shaved ten years off my life."

He had the audacity to smirk. "You're being dramatic."

Stiles glared. The hand covering his heart dropped to his side. "Why are you silently stalking me anyway?"

"Did you not get any of my messages?"

Stiles opened his mouth to ask 'what messages?'. Instead he pulled out his phone. He had two unread. "I guess I didn't feel it go off."

"So do you want to get out of here?"

"The doors are locked-" He threw a thumb behind him in the direction of the library. "So I was going to hide in the-"

Derek held up his faculty badge.

 

John had the late shift and Stiles' house was closer to the school. They planned to order a pizza and watch a movie.

They were in the kitchen, Stiles was ordering the pizza online.

Derek took a swig from the water bottle Stiles had set down on the counter.

"By all means, share your germs with me," he said, looking up from his laptop.

Derek only continued drinking, making sure to maintain eye contact.

"Jerk."

They settled on Jurassic Park and pepperoni.

Stiles nodded off half way through.

Derek didn't sleep, though he wanted to. He just watched Stiles. The rise and fall of his chest with every breath.

He looked peaceful.

Derek drove back to his loft at eleven. He kissed Stiles goodbye.

 

Scott messaged him hours later.

      Hey wanna see something stupid?

Stiles squinted his eyes, mouthing ‘what?’ at the screen.

       Sure…?

The reply was immediate.

        Look in the reflection of ur phone screen

Stiles shook his head.

        WoW. I am so offended right now

He could practically hear Scott’s giggle.

        Dude I know some 9yo on xbox live said that to me

He typed out:

        That’s why you don’t turn on the comms.

The front door slammed open. Stiles looked at the time: two in the morning. His father's shift was supposed to end at midnight.

He would’ve silently hidden in his room but his father started calling him, presuming he was awake. "Stiles!"

He stared at the closed door to his bedroom.

"Stiles! Get down here!" He yelled louder, more abrasive.

"Ye-yeah, I’m coming!" He threw his phone on the bed.

His dad was standing in the living room. He looked sober enough. Which didn't mean a whole lot. "You know what's coming up, right?"

Stiles nodded. "Mom."

John scrubbed a hand over his face. "We're staying home that day. It's a monday, I think. We'll go to her grave."

Stiles...did not want that. He'd rather be with Derek. A day alone with his dad was unpredicatble. It could be devastating.

"Actually, I just wanted to go to school. Like normal-"

John grabbed his arm. Stiles almost tumbled forward from the force. "You could at least do this for your mom." He was like a cobra. Calm and still to deadly an instant later.

"I'll- I can just go after school..." Stiles tried. If this was an indicator of how well it'd go on the actual day, he'd prefer school.

John's eyes narrowed. "Not good enough." He let go of Stiles' arm at the same time his fist connected with his cheek. He fell backwards from the blow.

"You don’t even miss her!" He screamed, spittle flying from his open mouth.

He couldn't tell if John had been drinking or not. Which made everything hurt worse.

"Dad, it’s not like that-," Stiles tried, voice cracking with emotion.

"Damn it!" John sat down heavily on the couch, dropping his head into open palms. "You did this."

Stiles thought it was the right time to crab backwards and jump to his feet.

"She-she could've gotten better. But you- you were always there. Causing her to go-" He stared straight at Stiles. "You killed her."

The words struck him like the heavy force of gunfire. He felt the pain at the base of his spine.

"I don't want to see you. Go upstairs!" He roared, standing to his full height.

Flood waters chased his heels as he ran up the steps.

 

Stiles pulled out a bottle of cough syrup from under his bed. It was hard to breathe. Maybe if he was asleep, the rising waters couldn't get to him.

He drank half of it, cringing at the taste. It said 'grape' on the bottle. In what universe did grapes taste that rank?

He burrowed into his comforter, body shaking from anxiety. From fear.

The windows rattled with the force of the rain. He held his injured arm closer to his chest.

Detach. Float the emotions away like a balloon.

That night he dreamed of the sea.

　

Stiles went into school the next day with one thought on his mind.

_Don’t puke. Don’t fucking puke._

Well, two thoughts, actually.

_Avoid Derek._

He’d woken up with a partial black eye. If the coach saw it, he’d flip.

The bruise on his arm was a vibrant purple. In the undeniable shape of a hand. And it fucking hurt. He pulled his sleeve down further, trying his best to keep it from moving.

The plan was to just avoid him for a few days, until the bruising went down.

In the parking lot, he held two diet pills and an Adderall. He swallowed all three with a bottle of water. He felt sick to his stomach but the exhaustion he felt was enough to make him want to cry.

The avoiding would be moderately easy.

They were on the last bit of Casino Royale. The darkness was his friend. With Economics taken care of, he had maybe PE (they didn’t always see each other during that time. Usually just Stiles headed back there to bullshit through his online PE tests).

Now his first thought was the bigger problem.

His head and stomach pulsed in unison. Every class he thought, _‘this is it. this is where I vomit and then pass out in that vomit’._

 

His third hour was Calculus. The teacher needed copies made.

Stiles volunteered as tribute to get out of the oppressive math environment.

He went to the library. It was busy with students. Stiles was in a chair next to the copier. The screen showed fifteen out of eighty.

Everything was cool. Until Derek walked in.

Keeping with avoidance was key in his critical hour. But he was flail-y and awkward and he had a third of a second before Derek would see him.

He fumbled the magazine in his hand, crumpling it briefly, before spreading it in front of his face. Like he was just some dude reading a- he looked at the contents- one of those science magazines for after test time reading, though he vaguely recalled Mr. Harris saying those were classroom copies only.

Derek breezed by to one of the shelves.

Stiles mentally fist pumped. _Successss._

 

Everything was still cool by the time lunch arrived.

Stiles got there before Erica and Boyd. He’d told Derek their lunch date was a no-go because Erica ‘reallyyyy’ wanted to see him. Which wasn’t a complete lie. He sat down a bottle of unsweetened tea, not daring to eat. He looked at the alternating white/grey/maroon in disgust. A thin sheen of water coated the tiles under his stare.

Erica arrived shortly after. Boyd was sick.

Ten minutes of Stiles angling his bruised face away from her, Erica was done being quiet.

"You’re acting more suspicious than a nun doing squats in a cucumber field," she said.

He cracked a smile, mainly because she managed to say it in a semi-serious tone. "Interesting choice of literary device."

She put down the fork she’d been jabbing into the school's signature mystery-meat loaf. "You’re deflecting."

Stiles fumbled with the drawstring of his hoodie. "And you’re being paranoid."

"You’ve been missing a lot of school," she countered.

"Migraines are a bitch."

She narrowed her eyes. "What about your constant hoodie-wearing?"

He shrugged. "It’s been freaking cold. And you know the heating in the school sucks. Have you been in the locker room? Yeesh."

Erica crossed her arms. "Why do you have a black eye?"

"I’m clumsy."

"Scott mentioned how you don’t come to PE anymore."

_That’s because Derek lets me chill out in his office._ "I’ve been taking PE online."

Erica threw her hands up. "Do you have an excuse for everything?"

"Only when people go all Sherlock Holmes on me and dissect my every action."

"Stiles."

He tossed his head to the side to look at her. "What?"

"Stiles. You can let me in."

He tapped against his thigh. "I know."

A spray of water hit his face.

He blinked. Dark waves surrounded him, ebbing against his thighs. The students around him stared forward as cold liquid enveloped them. Stiles didn't panic. He sat in the rising water, staring forward. _This isn't real._

The start of his leg shaking ushered in the rain. It wetted his clothing. Those around him didn't react. He shook his leg harder, sloshing the water that drowned his lower half.

He wanted to run. To get out of the rising water. He sat there in the cold because there was no other option. No matter where he was, the rain would find him.

Erica was looking at him. Water licked his ankles.

_I’m going to be sick._

He stood up, shrugging on his back pack. "I have to go."

"Wait, why-"

He didn’t hear the rest as he moved through the cafeteria.

 

Stiles burst into the restroom. The door hit the wall with a bang but his hearing left as the need to pass out intensified. He gave the stall the same rough treatment.

His boney knees hit the hard ground. The wet sloshing of liquid echoed in the quiet.

Tears streamed down his face while his stomach cramped in painful spasms. Stiles wiped his mouth and leaned forward to flush what had previously been in his stomach. There was the unmistakable red of blood in the bowl.

Standing was a no-go. He sat there, collecting himself. The pressure in his head didn’t lessen so with a ‘fuck it’ attitude, he stood up on shaky feet. He pulled on his backpack. Water dripped down the walls and into the drains. An endless fountain of panic.

He pressed a palm to the cold door and swung it open.

Leaning against the sink directly in front of him was Jackson.

It was futile to back up into the stall.

There were only two sinks. Stiles had a thing about washing hands so he took a breath. With the same ‘let’s go against all self-preservation instinct’ mentality, he parked himself mere feet from the volatile teen.

Stiles put his hands under the scalding stream (the faucets had two temperatures; arctic and lava. Why did the school have to go out of its way to make everyone as uncomfortable as possible?).

Jackson turned to him. "Hey."

Stiles dried his trembling hands with rough, tan paper. He pitched it in the bin.

Jackson took a step forward. Stiles took an instinctive stepped back.

That seemed to anger Jackson. The anger wasn’t necessarily directed at Stiles.

"Here," the blond teen shoved his hand forward, offering Stiles an unopened water bottle.

Stiles hadn't noticed. He'd been so focused on not getting hit.

Rejecting his peace offering could bring about unfavorable consequences.

He scooted forward and accepted it with wary eyes. "Thanks…?" Stiles stumbled out. The cold of the plastic burned his hands.

Jackson nodded. His hand went back to hang a back pack strap, the other hung from his pocket. He wasn’t shuffling but there was an anxious energy hanging in the air around them. The muscle in his jaw tensed. "I’m going through some stuff," he offered. He shook his head a moment later, frustrated at his inability to explain himself.

Stiles needed to stop this trainwreck before it got any more awkward. "Jackson, you don’t have to-"

"No!" He shouted.

Stiles couldn't help his flinch.

Jackson inhaled though his nose. "I mean, no. I have to apologize."

"Apologize?" Stiles repeated in disbelief.

Jackson rolled his eyes. "Yeah. I’m seeing a therapist now and she said the first step is to apologize to everyone I've hurt."

He blinked owlishly. Jackson was seeing a therapist. And he was telling Stiles of all people. He scratched the back of his head. "Well, that’s…that’s awesome. I’m glad you’re able to…get some help."

Apparently his answer had been the right one because Jackson’s shoulders sagged in relief.

Did he expect a different reaction? If he hadn't been standing there, looking like a dog who'd been praised by his owner, Stiles would've laughed. The fact his opinion meant anything to someone like Jackson was truly a joke.

The bell rang and the blond nodded with that same blank expression. He walked out of the bathroom.

Stiles stood there, confused but grateful. For the water and the awkward apology.

He didn't go home after that. He gritted his teeth and floated through the rest of the day. His legs were tired from treading the waves.

 

          Can you get that economics textbook from the library? I forgot it when I went earlier

Stiles was in his independent period. He was set up in the library when Derek texted him.

          Sure.

           Just leave it in my office.

He found the book with ease and packed it away, along with the rest of his stuff. He didn't trust the other students not to draw a dick or something on his homework.

The halls were empty.

He opened the door to the locker room and walked in. It shut behind him.

Before he could go to Derek's office, a hand tapped his shoulder.

Stiles most certainly did not scream.

He grabbed at his chest. "Seriously, Derek, you're eerily good at this whole stalking thing."

And then he remembered; AVOID DEREK.

Derek crossed his arms. Eyes raked over his face. "You were avoiding me."

Stiles scratched his head. "'Avoiding' is putting it a bit harsh."

He continued like Stiles hadn't said anything. "You were avoiding me because you didn’t want me to see your face?"

Stiles shuffled on his feet. "Well, yeah."

Derek took a long inhale. "Stiles." His jaw tensed. He looked _pissed._

And the brain _down there_ was getting turned on. The main brain, well, what was supposed to be the main brain, was getting into it too. Angry Derek was so fucking hot.

"You have no irises. You look like a wild animal and it’s kind of turning me on."

Derek grabbed his unijured arm, holding it almost fondly. "This is serious."

"I know it is."

The hand tightened. Not uncomfortably. Not yet. "You avoided me because you knew I’d be angry." His voice was low.

Derek wasn’t angry with him (well, maybe a little. For the avoiding thing). He was angry with John.

He wasn’t scared. But he was getting pissed off too. "There is a definite note of uncalled for hostility in your voice." Stiles ripped his wrist from the iron circle of Derek’s hand.

His breathing was picking up. Derek recognized the anger on his face. He was raw. Embarassed.

Stiles' eyes darted away.

"Look at me." Derek tugged his chin up so their eyes met. "If he touches you again, I will go to prison."

His tongue darted out to wet his lips. "I’d prefer if you didn’t."

"Si vis pacem, para bellum." The man glanced down. "If you want peace, prepare for war."

"Don’t quote Plato at me," Stiles said, mildy amused.

"He had a point." The coach's tone was oppositional. He crossed his arms.

"You’re not going to start a war," Stiles said. ‘ _Please do not actually start a war’_ , was greatly implied.

Derek straightened his stance. "We’ll see."

Resigned, Stiles patted him on the chest. "OK, tough guy. I get it. You’re scary."

He wasn't in the joking mood. Not when Stiles was so visibly hurt. "I don’t like this. How you have to go through this…."

"I’m wired to thrive on dysfunction," Stiles offered. He worked Derek’s arms from their intimidating, club-bouncer position until they were at his sides. Stiles took his hands, swinging them slightly as he spoke. "It’s not forever."

Derek mouth clenched tightly. "It …fucking sucks…" He shook his head.

Stiles nodded. "I know." He patted Derek’s chest again. "Now let’s go make out in your office."

　

　

"I'm not letting you take my car for a joy ride," Derek said flatly.

"Pl _ease?_ "

"No."

Stiles huffed into the phone. "You're no fun."

"I've driven with you before and I don't want to put my car through that."

There was a pause. "What's wrong with my driving?"

"What _isn't_ wrong with it?"

Stiles's tone was playful. _'How dare you insult my driving'._ "You know, last time we went to that movie theatre out of town, you ran two red lights and a stop sign."

Derek didn't reply.

"You're a _baa~aadd_ driver," he said in a sing song voice.

"Shut it."

There was a thump on the other end.

"Stiles?" He asked.

More thumping. "Give me a second-"

There was another, louder bang. Then yelling.

"Stiles?" He asked again, sitting up in bed.

The screaming continued until the line went dead.

Derek stared at his phone.

He tried calling back but it went straight to voicemail.

There was a dilemma. John could be hurting Stiles. Which meant he was home.

He couldn't exactly just drive over and pop in for a chat.

But he had to do something.

 

Derek rasped his knuckles against the window. He sat back on his haunches and waited.

The blinds came up. Stiles’ confused face appeared. His eyes went cartoonishly wide as he noticed his boyfriend, on the _roof_ of his _house._

He hurriedly unlocked the window and lifted it, backing up to give Derek space to go in one leg at a time.

With both feet securely on carpet, Derek turned to shut the window. When he turned back, Stiles was looking at him. The bruise was still fairly obvious on his face. There seemed to be no new injuries. Physically, at least.

"Dude, how’d you get up here?" Stiles asked, voice hushed. He glanced behind him to make sure the door was locked.

"A sturdy outdoor table and upper body strength." Derek moved closer to him, brushing a hand over his face and shoulders.

"You didn't have to-" he exhaled. It was surreal. "- It's all good now."

"There was yelling and then your phone was off..."

Stiles held up pieces of his phone. The battery and back panel had come apart. The screen was cracked. "He threw it. I hadn't put it back together." Panic lit up the teen’s face. If Derek was found here- "As awesome and hot as this is, you need to leave."

"It’ll be fine," he replied cooly, not planning on leaving. He was too worried.

Stiles rubbed a hand over his forehead, then pressed his hands together in a steeple. A subconscious way to make his words sharper to pierce Derek’s nonchalant-I’m an idiot-armor."If my dad finds you in here-" He stopped. "Derek, he’ll shoot first and ask questions later."

Derek held his ground. Instead of leaving via window like Stiles really wanted him to do, he sat himself on the teen's bed, toeing off his shoes. He adjusted until he was on his side, facing Stiles. He patted the space next to him.

Stiles allowed himself a breathy laugh. Derek was in _his bed._ With _his father_ right across the hall. His _sheriff_ father, who barged in with a gun anytime Stiles had a nightmare.

Stiles let his head fall forward before rolling it back up to look at the man sprawled across his bed. "Dere _kkkk_."

"Stil _eeessss_ ," Derek mocked. He patted the place next to him once. Twice. Three times-

The teen gave in. There was a hot guy in his bed who wanted to cuddle. Who was he to deny him?

Stiles crawled into bed, wiggling until he was comfortable. They were chest-to-back with the man’s arm acting as a stand in pillow. Derek reached up to turn off the bedside lamp.

Their breathing filled the darkness.

"Derek, you didn't have to come."

His breath fanned over Stiles’ neck. He pressed a kiss to the pale flesh; just the slightest hint of teeth. It made him shutter.

"I was scared." He'd pictured Stiles hurt and bloody. By staying he was being selfish. It made him feel better to be there with him. Like some kind of guard dog.

Stiles nodded against his arm-pillow. The soft, brown hair tickled Derek’s skin. "It wasn’t a big thing."

Derek would call John’s screaming something entirely different. It startled even him, who had been across town. "Then what's considered a ‘big thing’?" He asked against his neck. He smelled like soap.

Stiles didn’t respond. Derek already knew the answer was in the form of fear and colorful markings blooming across his pale skin.

It made Derek sick.

He hugged the teen closer, careful not to squeeze too tightly. Bones protruded from the thin material of Stiles’ sleep clothes.

 

He whimpered.

Derek didn’t hear it clearly at first. He was half asleep himself. It was just a little high pitched sound in the darkness.

He did it again.

Derek turned over in his barely conscious state, facing Stiles. Sometime in the night he had drifted towards the edge of the bed. He scooted closer to him.

There was another sound.

Derek cracked his eyes. His vision took time to adjust.

The teen’s face was scrunched up. His lashes wet with unshed tears.

"Stiles?" He asked, voice like gravel.

The other didn’t respond. He was on his side, knees drawn to his chest. Derek moved closer and took the lithe body into his arms. The shaking let up.

He kissed Stiles’ forehead. "I’m here."

 

It wasn't the last time Derek visited him in the night. He'd leave by morning, before the sheriff.

One one such occasion, neither was able to sleep. It was late. Derek was on the bed, reading emails. Stiles was at his desk, doing homework.

"Stiles, why is there purple marker on your ceiling?"

Stiles leaned back in his chair to look at the symbol he’d traced. "Oh. That. I was bored."

"So you drew on the ceiling?"

Stiles shrugged, sitting back to hunch over his work. "Pretty much."

The teen hadn't been sleeping. It'd been days. Derek sat up. "Feeling tired yet?"

He shook his head. "Not really."

The man just stared.

Stiles swiveled a bit to look at him. "It's fine. This is a thing that happens."

"There's a word for this 'thing'."

Stiles rolled his eyes. "I can handle no sleep, unlike someone."

"Stiles." He sounded serious. "Nightmares?"

The teen nodded. "Yeah."

"You are aware of the consequences of sleep deprivation?"

"Decreases in alertness, attention, and memory. Impaired mood and performance," Stiles rattled off, tapping against his book. He looked up when Derek remained silent. "Ohh, you were being rhetorical."

Having Derek there kept the tide low. The sky was grey but there was no rain.

It was nice to be able to take a breath.

Stiles tapped his fingers on the desk. But even Derek couldn't stop Claudia. And the havoc her memory would bring.

　

 

"The anniversary of _her_ death is coming up."

Derek hated the break room.

"Really?"

But he loved coffee.

"Yeah. I think it will be…six years now. Wait, maybe seven."

He’d walked in on a free period, expecting to be alone. He was not. Three strides in he saw Mrs. Blake, the English teacher, sitting perpendicular to some other woman Derek had only talked to in passing. They’d seen him, he’d seen them. Social etiquette told him it would be rude to just back out and walk away.

He wanted to tell social etiquette to fuck off.

Mrs. Blake smiled at him from behind her ceramic mug. He’d have to brave it out.

_Do it for the coffee._

He tried for a polite smile and nodded at the two, shuffling over to the kitchenette to get the coffee that didn’t seem at all worth it now. He could feel the lecherous gawking they ‘hid’ behind their mugs.

Derek sat away from them, in front of the staff refrigerator. He’d prefer to slink back to his den but mugs were no longer allowed out of the break room, because someone (who was not him. Or so he’d been telling himself) kept walking off with all of the ones in the cupboards. So until he finished his cup, he’d be stuck listening to their gossip. The coach pulled out his phone to ward off any attempts at getting him to join their conversation.

"Hmm. I just know it was before I started teaching here. I’ve heard about it though," the unfamiliar teacher said. She was a bottle blonde with flats covered in green sparkles that reflected off of the light, creating a disco-light effect under the table. She crossed one knee over the other, glancing at Derek before saying: "I’ve heard it’s almost taboo to bring up."

He took a drink of his coffee.

The brunette put on a show of picking up her mug with two hands. She took a sip. "It’s something not a lot of people really understand."

"Why?"

Blake set her mug down. "You know she was... not well… before she died?" She pointed a manicured finger at her head as she mouthed, _"Here."_

"You’re ki _dd_ ing," the blonde woman said, putting extra emphasis on the ‘dd’. Like people were _never_ mentally unwell or something.

"Everyone knows it. But no one talks about it," Blake said matter-of-factly.

"Why?"

The English teacher leaned closer and spoke in a conspiratorial tone. "I think everyone feels bad for the husband. I mean, his wife was crazy. For a man of his office, I think people just feel bad for him."

"Well, what about their son? She wasn’t like _that…_ was she?"

It made Derek feel sick to see the look of pure delight on his coworker’s face as she leaned back in triumph; her disgusting gossip had the other woman interested.

"I heard she was. CPS was involved and everything. I had a friend working there and she told me all the nasty little bits. Apparently there were several _incidents._ Bruises, malnutrition, that kind of thing. Even broken bones. But it was always, ‘oh, he’s just a clumsy kid'."

The other gasped and did the thing all women seemed to do when there was terrible/shocking/unbelievable/upsetting news. She whispered: " _No._ "

Blake nodded. "She did. And with him being the sheriff…I think everyone just wanted to spare him the embarrassment. I mean, a crazy wife and a son following in her footsteps-"

Derek got up from the table, slamming his chair in. The clatter echoed like a gunshot in the room. Both women jumped in their seats before going silent. He walked to the door, hands clenched into fists at his sides, coffee forgotten.

It hadn’t connected until she’d mentioned the sheriff.

_I’m sorry, Stiles._

Back in the broom closet, he opened up Google. The key words ["Stilinski"+"Death"+2006..2007] brought him to an obituary. His eyes scanned the screen.

_"Claudia Stilinski passed away in her sleep yesterday, February twenty seventh, leaving behind her husband, John Stilinski, and son, Genim Stilinski. Her decline was rapid and unexpected. She was twenty nine years old._ _Claudia’s battle may be over but she will truly be missed."_

It talked vaguely about a rare form of dementia, but didn't give a name or details. There were some testaments, describing her life. _"Pillar of the community". "Kind". "Sweet_ ". The kinds of things people said after a death.

Derek didn’t know if what Jennifer said was true, but if it was, the internet had different things to say. They painted her as an angel who had returned home.

The only person he could ask was Stiles. Yeah...that'd go well.

_"Hey, Stiles. I know you’ve been doing pretty shitty lately. Is it because your mom is dead? Or because she was crazy and abused you? And your father, as well as everyone else, knew it and did nothing? Oh, you’re telling me to fuck off? Understood. Fucking off now."_

He closed the tab and leaned back. Rough hands fisted his eyes until he saw stars.

Stiles never talked about his mom. Never mentioned old childhood memories from before three in the family became two.

Maybe it was Claudia who started him on his unstable path.

He should've put it together. He went through the same down hill slope every time the date of the fire came around.

He looked at the open planner on his desk.

February twentieth. Seven more days.

　

　

There was a deep pit in his chest. It yawned wide and hollow.

It was going to swallow him.

At eleven Stiles started to look at things he shouldn't have been looking at on tumblr (no, not porn. He wasn't feeling very much up for porn lately). He was looking at pictures of scars and burns, ignoring the little message tumblr staff set up saying ‘Is everything okay?' _Nothing is OK._

He logged off at twelve and considered texting Derek. _I feel shitty. Please talk to me._

He really did consider it but the voice in his head kept saying things and well, he listened to that voice (he named it _‘Probably Shouldn’t Listen To Most Of The Time But Do Anyway’_ , for that very reason).

He pulled a blade from his Box o' Treasures. It was a thin strip of metal taken from a disposable razor. No longer than an inch but sharper than his other blade. The one he'd unscrewed from a hand held pencil sharpener.

It caused a different kind of pain. Sharp and deliciously quick. He could cut deeper with less force.

He lifted his pant leg up to his thigh.

He ripped the metal across his flesh with such force the cut turned into a seam. The senastion of flesh splitting was indescribable. He watched in real time as the line opened and filled with blood.

His eyes closed in euphoria.

He made three more cuts on his thigh. It wasn't enough. Cutting wasn't enough. He brought out his lighter.

He tested the white Bic; the flame was high. It would work.

The bobby pins were stashed away in his desk. He took one and held it over the flame. He pulled the pin away three seconds later and pressed it to the outside of his bare thigh.

The pain was instant and all-consuming. He kept it against his skin until the metal cooled. His leg started shaking from the sensation. The rush of endorphins that followed was sublime; something cutting couldn’t match.

He lifted the pin to examine the red and blistered line on his thigh.

One became six. He put the lighter away.

The guilt came later.

He shouldn't have self harmed. But-

he did.

He knew he'd regret it but he did it anyway.

The whole cycle thing was a bitch.

It was one in the morning when he took two Adderall.

He started in on his essay for English. _"Heart of Darkness was pretty OK, in my opinion. A little gay, which may just be me reading into things. The relationship between Marlow and Kurtz went beyond fascination/admiration and went into obsession which, based on textual evidence, could arguably be translated into a sexual yearning..."_

He dropped his head to the laptop. The bottle of Adderall was right there...

He popped another and deleted what he had so far.

An hour later he was done with the essay. And the next three assignments that weren't due for another two weeks.

He'd just started in on some math related assignment.

Heart beats banged against his ribcage. Panted breaths escaped his mouth.Stiles dropped the notebook paper and moved a hand to cover the pounding.Abnormal heartbeat. Tremors. Rapid breathing.

All signs of a moderate amphetamine overdose.

Well. It was only moderate. He ‘hmm’d’ out loud, contemplating how to continue with this information. A nagging whisper projected a thought into his head. _‘Deal with later’ box?_ It asked.

He nodded. _Definitely going into the ‘deal with later’ box._

Like so many things, it didn't stay there for long. Half an hour later the need to _just get up and do stuff_ became unbearable. He was organizing the pencils in his desk by size.

Maybe if he could just come down...

 

Stiles palmed the pack of cigarettes. He'd gotten them from Erica originally.

"My ‘supplier’," - who he knew to be 'the fat kid on the lacrosse team' (quoting Scott)- " got the wrong kind. Want them?"

And being who he was, he'd taken them. He opened his bedroom window, pointing a floor fan on himself so the smoke would blow out.

He'd smoked before. Scott and he had been thirteen and found a pack with one cigarette still in it. They passed it back and forth, coughing but enjoying the buzz nicotine provided.

Three years later, he lit one up and inhaled. He coughed. Another inhale. He coughed again. The dizzy, light-headed feeling rushed in and suddenly it didn't matter. He rested his wrist on the sill and watched the smoke billow from the window. He took another drag. Every ounce of tension melted from his body.

It made him feel so good in fact, he smoked eight more. By the end, he had nicotine poisoning. Or so he assumed.

He’d just taken a puff of the eighth when he felt it; something akin to a freight train. It hit him and he puked into the trashcan by his desk. His hands shook uncontrollably. A pressure like a drum pounded against his temples.

His hands continued to shake when he took off his clothes to jump into a searing shower. His cuts burned under the spray. He braced himself against the tiled wall to prevent a total collapse, trying desperately not to black out. His head throbbed as he threw his clothes into the washer. He sprayed copious amounts of sea breeze air freshener into his room. He packed away the remaining cigarettes though he felt sick thinking about smoking anymore.

Stiles laid down, still feeling shaky and nauseous. Sleeping on Adderall was damn near impossible.

He closed his eyes, content to ride out the waves of his mistakes.

　

Stiles was in bed the next night, scrolling through his dashboard when Derek called him.

It was ten o’clock.

He slid the green call button. "Whatever happened, I'm ninety percent sure it’s not my fault."

There was a pause on the other end. "Should I ask what the other ten percent is?"

"I’m a teenage boy. That explanation should be enough."

Derek made a sound on the other end, like he’d snorted. "You have an interesting way of answering the phone."

"I try to mix it up every now and then."

Derek huffed into the phone. It made Stiles’ face heat. He wished Derek was actually there, with his breath close enough to tickle the hairs on his neck.

"Do you want to go out?" Derek asked, something unrecognizable in his voice.

"Out where?"

There was silence, then: "I’m not allowed to disclose that information."

"Hmm. When?"

He paused again. "I can’t disclose that either."

Stiles readjusted the pillows propped against his back. "Well, that certainly sounds tempting."

"Can you just go along with it?"

"If you call me pretty."

"You’re pretty," Derek said with no hesitation.

Stiles leaned his head against the wall. "Just promise you’re not going to take me to some remote location and snuff me."

"You’re ridiculous."

"I didn’t hear a ‘No, Stiles, I will not kill you in the woods."

"It’s not out of the realm of possibilities yet."

"You have an interesting way of getting me to go out with you."

"I try to exceed expectations," the older man replied cheekily. "And you realize if I wanted to kill you, I would’ve done it by now. There _have_ been a lot of opportunities."

"What’s that supposed to mean? You’ve been tallying every moment you could’ve potentially murdered me?"

"Yes, I believe as of yesterday, total opportunities have been over one thousand…"

Stiles giggled. "Waiting until you’ve developed an attachment before offing me is pretty kinky."

"Is it? Maybe I’m just a psychopathic romantic."

Stiles heard the steps creaking. "Hey, I’ve gotta go. I’ll talk later, OK?"

"Stiles, are you-" He cut the man off with a press of the ‘end call’ button.

Stiles snuggled into his comforter to feign sleep.

The footsteps stopped in front of his door. Four soft knocks came a minute later.

Stiles didn’t move.

Light from the hall spilled into his dark bedroom. He pictured his father; nothing but the black silhouette of a man from the back-lighting.

"Stiles?" His dad called.

Though he didn’t entirely understand why he did it, he kept his eyes shut and breathing even. In this rare moment of his father’s sobriety, he pretended to be dead to the world.

John stepped further into the room.

Maybe because if he was awake, it’d shatter the illusion. With his eyes closed, he could pretend John was the same John from before.

His dad moved towards his bed. He stood there, over him. His breathing was slightly choked.

Warm, shaking hands tucked the blanket tighter around Stiles’ still form. Blunt fingers smoothed over his hair.

Stiles didn’t lean into it. The urge was prevalent.

Maybe he really was just an abused kid who was accustomed to loving hands also being the most hurtful.

Lips touched his temple. Wetness hit his blanket in a concentrated drop.

"I’m sorry," his dad whispered to what he thought was an unconscious room. He sniffed as he padded back to the hall. The door creaked as it shut.

Stiles felt like crying too.

　

It was probably going to be a total shit storm when the twenty seventh rolled around. If Derek could at least do something with the teen, to distract him... things might go better. Stiles did the same for him on his birthday. Derek could at least do this.

He planned a date out of town. There was a new indie record store two hours away. It’d be a good idea to get Stiles as far from Beacon Hills tomorrow as possible. _As far from John as possible._

They’d go to the store and maybe out to eat if Stiles could handle that. They might cruise for a bit; Derek still wasn’t sure. It depended on how Stiles was feeling. He might not even want to go out at all. Derek planned to just ‘kidnap’ him after the sheriff's regular shift at five. Stiles wouldn’t have a chance to object.

　

They were at the loft playing one of Stiles' favorite games (Call of Duty was growing on Derek, though he wouldn't let the teen know that). He was trying to dig for answers. Stiles was doing his dance.

Derek was a master of handling things in the worst way possible.

He grew...not necessarily impatient. Frustrated. He wanted to help. Stiles wasn't letting him.

So he- he got things rolling.

"I know what tomorrow is."

Stiles didn't look away from the screen. "So do I. Monday."

"I'm being serious." He paused the game and set aside his controller. "I know about your mom."

The teen didn't react. "Know what about my mom?"

"There was some talk of..." He didn't know how to put it.

"-How long?" Stiles asked before the man could articulate his words..

"A while."

"How long is 'awhile'?" Stiles set his own controller down.

"A week."

"Seriously?" His shoulders sagged. "That's why you wanted to go out?"

"That's not the _only_ reason-"

"How'd you find out?"

"I overheard some teachers talking-" he stopped. Maybe it wasn't the best time to tell Stiles his family was a great source of gossip.

Stiles' expression told him he already knew people talked. "You could've-you could've asked or something. Instead of just drawing your own conclusions-"

"I didn't know if I even _could_ ask you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You have these- landmines, and sometimes I don't know if a question is safe to ask you. I don't want you to blow up."

"Are you the pot or kettle this week?" Stiles spat, words laced with venomous sarcasm.

"We're not talking about me right now."

"Then who are we talking about? Me? My mom?"

"I was hoping both."

Stiles cracked his knuckles. "What exactly did you find out?"

"She was sick."

He looked relieved.

"-and people thought she was abusive."

Stiles did not look relieved.

"That's not true," he said defensively.

"And that's why I wanted to ask you." Derek clasped his hands. "Are any of the rumors true?"

Stiles refused to look at him. "You know how there is Nature Vs. Nurture?" Derek nodded. "Let's just say the nurture part was pretty absent in my life."

"You're going to have to give me more than that."

"OK. My childhood sucked."

"Stiles."

"Why do you need to know?"

"Maybe it would help me understand you and your..." there wasn't a nice way to put it.

"Issues?" Stiles offered.

Derek took a breath. "Yeah."

"Really?"

"Yes. Really." He was serious.

Stiles' hands were fidgeting. "I admit that I have some issues. And I understand why my behaviors are seen as troubling…" Derek gave him a look. _‘Troubling is putting it mildly’._ "- but sometimes I’m just responding like anyone would."

"This isn't normal. The things you do-"

"That's because you don’t get it," he said, his hands flipping out in frustration.

"Then help me ‘get it’. Help me understand. Just say something!"

Stiles' voice was pained. "And what do you want me to say?"

Derek shook his head. A dejected sigh escaped his lips. "Anything. Everything." He broke off. "Just…talk to me about _this_. We can work it out."

An anger engulfed the teen. Anger at himself for being such a worthless fuck. His dad. And at Derek for just not _understanding._ "You know how in fairy tales love conquers all? The prince kills the dragon and saves the princess and they live happily ever after? That shit doesn’t happen in real life."

"Why not?"

"Because the princess would get issues from being imprisoned for so long and the prince would get tired of her problems. And he has problems of his own so he shouldn't have to deal with hers anyway."

"What are you saying?"

"I’m saying you can’t cure me." His anger bubbled over. "You-you can’t just say ‘We'll work it out’ and think that’s the end. That I’m fine. We’re fine. You can’t just say stuff like that and expect everything to be OK. Because it’s not. It’s so fucking far from being OK."

"That's not what I meant and you know it. I-" he took a breath. "- I want to know what's going on with you. What's going on in your head. I want to help you."

Stiles was quiet. He didn't know how to put it into words. "It’s raining," he said finally.

Derek's eyes roamed to the windows. There was no downpour. "It’s not…"

"No, Derek, I mean- It rains every day." He paused trying to find the words. To make Derek _get it._ "It floods everything. I’m always treading water. And-and I’m just waiting for when I can’t move anymore and the current pulls me under. I’m tired. Oh god- Derek. I’m so tired. I want to just fucking _breath._ And the fear-" he stopped.

"The fear of drowning at any moment," Derek finished.

Stiles looked at him for a moment. "Yeah." His leg was shaking. "I'm- I need to leave." He stood up.

"Stiles, wait-" Derek followed him to the door. "I can be here for you. You just have to let me."

The teen fiddled with his keys. He nodded. His face was flushed. "I can't go out. With you on Monday, I mean. I have stuff to do."

Stiles walked away without another word.

Derek stared after him. Unable to follow.

　

Stiles wasn’t at school the next day.

Derek was in the Economics room during lunch, anxiously bouncing his leg. He sat his phone down after sending another ‘are you ok?’ text.

Worry was an understatement.

He was helpless. He couldn’t just leave to drive to Stiles' house. If the sheriff was home, there would be no explanation. And Stiles wasn't answering his phone so Derek couldn't ask. He’d have to wait until five to see him. Hopefully the sheriff would be at work. It’d be a bad day to get arrested.

He was sitting in the locker room last hour. Though is was frigid, it was better than the crushing heat of his office. He was filling out an accident report for a Freshie who fell from the bleachers after he'd specifically said not to climb them.

"Coach."

Derek turned to the voice. Both eyebrows crept into his hairline. Two of his students stood in the doorway.

Erica had been in his class last year. Which had been interesting enough. Boyd was in Stiles' gym class (or what should've been, before online PE became a thing).

They were Stiles' good friends, from what he'd told Derek.

"You should be at the assembly." There was heavy authority in his voice.

Erica straightened and Boyd subconsciously moved closer until their shoulders were touching.

"This is more important than a freaking pep assembly," she answered.

Derek was going to ask, _"What could be more important than a mandatory school function,"_ when she continued talking. "This is about Stiles."

Derek's blood froze. "Stiles," he repeated.

"He's not here today and I think you know why," Boyd said.

Derek wasn't sure if they the manner of their relationship. Erica was smart enough. He wasn't sure about Boyd; although silence did not indicate intelligence or lack thereof.

"Yeah, I do," he said.

"And I think something is up with the sheriff." She looked at Boyd briefly.

Derek nodded. A silent confirmation.

"I think Scott might drop by, just a warning..." Erica said. "We'll be seeing you later."

They left before he could say anything else. He watched them go.

Her prediction had been correct.

Scott and Allison appeared moments later. The couples had probably bumped into each other in the hallways.

"Coach," Scott waved to him.

"Hey...?" Derek stood up. "Assembly?"

They were both out of breath. They must have run from the teachers doing crowd control. Scott did the talking. "Um, well, I wanted to tell you Stiles-" he took a breath. He was asthmatic so if took a second to regain his composure. "-isn't at school today."

He tried to seem unconcerned. Trying not to give himself away. "That's not exactly unheard of."

"You're new here so you probaby didn't know that today is the anniversary of his mom's death." He took another breath. "And he's not answering his phone."

"And you came to me?"

"I dunno, you seem to hang with him sometimes so I figured you should know what's happening."

_We really need to be more careful. At least Scott is as observant as a turnip._ "OK, well, thank you. Now leave before someone sees me harbouring two assembly fugitives."

Allison and Scott nodded and took off down the halls.

He sat back down and rested his chin on his hands. He was growing increasingly worried with each visit.

Lydia appeared in the doorway last, a frustrated looking Jackson in tow.

"Let me guess: you're here for Stiles."

Lydia knew about their relationship. There was no helping that. But if she'd told Jackson anything...

"An astute observation," Lydia answered. She shoved her shoulder into Jackson, pushing him forward. She gestured with her head as she spoke, "Tell him what you told me."

Jackson looked away from Derek before looking back in some psuedo-alpha, ‘I'm not afraid of you' bullshit. Derek's scowl had him rethinking that. He hadn't forgotten what Jackson had done to Stiles. Even being kicked from the team hadn't dampened his anger.

The blond rubbed his neck. "I saw him -Stiles- a couple of days ago. In the bathroom. He didn't look good."

"He didn't look 'good'?" Derek repeated, his tone indicated 'you better elaborate'.

Jackson shrugged glancing at Lydia. Derek took it as a sign of submission. Maybe he really was a predator.

"I was by the lunch room and I saw him run into the bathroom. He was pale, well paler than usual, so I figured something was wrong."

Lydia rolled her eyes. "Go on."

"I got him a water bottle and he looked like he'd been sick. I don't know. He might've just been scared."

"OK, that's good enough. You can leave now," Lydia said, not looking at Jackson.

He was staring at her. "Wait, but I thought-"

She turned to him, arms crossed. "Go wait by your car."

He nodded. Then, looking to Derek, said: "I hope you get that little weirdo help-" Derek gave him a warning scowl "-Just saying. I'll see you around, Coach."

He turned on his heel and walked away. Lydia remained, her arms still crossed. "Don't worry about him. I told him you were only the concerned teacher in all of this."

That put Derek at ease. Jackson was a petty little shit.

"What are you trying to do here, Derek?" She asked, tone prim and crisp, as always. "What are you trying to get out of your relationship with Stiles?"

"Nothing," he answered. He'd never given it much thought. He felt content when Stiles was around. He felt peace.

Lydia exhaled. "Stiles is-" She looked down, giving herself time to think of the words. "-Stiles has no filter, and he jokes constantly, even when he should shut his mouth, and he can act like the world just happens around him. Like he's untouchable. People think he's confident. He's always talking so-"

"He rambles when he's anxious or when he forgets his meds," Derek said.

She looked almost impressed. "Exactly. My point is: he's not confident."

"And?"

"He's hurt easily. And when he loves, he loves completely."

"Lydia, I don't see where this is going."

"I'm saying, if you aren't in this for the long haul, get out now."

"I'm in for as long as he wants me to be."

"This isn't a game. He loves you. He probably hasn't said it yet- for all the talking he does, he doesn't say what's most important- but I know he loves you."

"And I lo-"

She held up a hand. "Don't. Not the time. He's vulnerable, Coach. Love can only do so much when it's your brain's actual chemistry fucking things up. He’s broken," Derek wanted to say something but she continued with,"-that doesn't equate being weak. But you need to remember that maybe you’re not the one who’s supposed to fix him. You’ll pick up his pieces like a child would a butterfly; hands too rough and inexperienced. You’ll cut yourself on his pieces. He’ll still be shattered and your hands will be stained in blood."

"I won't hurt him," he said. Determined.

She nodded. "Keep that in your mind. Because I can get a list of people who will destroy you."

He didn't doubt it. "I'm aware."

"Good. I'll be taking my leave." She turned at the door. Something unreadable on her face. "It's not the fall that kills you, Derek. It's the landing."

He crossed his arms. "I know."

Derek watched her leave. He was starting to think teenagers were all weirdos.

 

 

He could only wait.

The drive time to his loft was doubled due to him turning around twice, in the direction of the Stilinski household. _I’m going to see him now._ But then he’d think of the consequences of running into the sheriff.

He steepled his fingers under his chin, nervously bouncing his leg in time with his beating heart. Derek glared a hole into the clock display on the cable box.

He sent another text to Stiles, knowing he’d get no response.

        I’ll be there at 5.

        Everything is going to be OK.

Derek only wished he believed it.

 

The Jeep wasn't parked out front. Which didn't mean much. It was in the shop constantly. The cruiser wasn't there either. But it could've been in the garage.

_Fuck it._

He rasped his knuckles against the front door. Now was probably not the time to climb through Stiles' window.

The door swung open almost the moment Derek's hand retreated.

John was out of breath. Obviously drunk. "Stiles-" His eyes widened as he took Derek in. "-Oh, you're the coach."

Derek didn't know how to respond.

"Wait, why're you here?"

"Sir, I'm-"

His mouth was hanging open. "If you're here..." He grabbed Derek by his leather jacket, pulling him inside.

Derek followed willingly. He'd hate to make a scene in front of the neighbors.

John slammed the door. "What the fuck have you been doing to Stiles?"

"I could ask you the same thing."

John brushed past Derek, putting the coach closest to the door. "You don't know anything."

"I know you're an alcoholic who beats on a kid."

John lunged, fists flying towards Derek.

The coach easily dodged; he wasn't John's usual type of punching bag. He corrected his stance.

Stiles couldn't defend himself. Derek could.

He caught him on the jaw. As his fist connected with flesh, John's status flashed in his mind.

Sheriff. Stiles' dad.

An abusive alcoholic.

John didn't fall. He staggered on his feet, lifting his own fists to defend himself. Derek was faster and punched him square in the nose. He felt the crunch of cartilege and the spray of blood followed.

John howled.

Derek pushed his fist into the center of the sheriff's chest. John's solar plexus. All sorts of important things the ribcage didn't protect.

John groaned, grabbing for his chest. He fell to his knees and then back on his ass. His head connected with the wall behind him.

Derek was only moderately satisfied. He grabbed a fist full of John's shirt, holding him inches above the ground. "Where is he?"

"You broke my nose!" His voice was nasily.

Derek shook him. "Tough shit. Now answer me."

"I don't know."

"I think you do."

John coughed and swore. One hand was trying to pry Derek loose, the other was covering his bleeding nose. "He's not innocent in this either."

Derek used his hold to shove him into the floor. "How the fuck is this his fault?" He growled.

John looked up at him in defiance. "I see her. In his eyes. His face. I just think of Claudia. And I get so _angry_."

"How is that his fault?" He growled in his face.

"I just miss her!" he shouted.

Derek let go and stood up. "Your wife is dead."

"Shut your fucking m-"

"And your son is still alive. Who takes presedence here?"

John didn't say anything. He'd given up on trying to sit up. He leaned against the wall.

"You knew about the abuse, didn't you?" The whole town had known. It would've been impossible for him to be unaware.

"You don't know anything," John repeated.

"I know enough."

John shook his head.

Derek wanted to give him more than a broken nose. "You knew and you did nothing."

"I-" his eyes shifted, hands fidgeting. He wanted to hit Derek. His battered body had him reconsidering. "I loved her. And she was a zombie on her meds. So I didn’t make her take them. She’d get angry. Or just cruel and apathetic. Usually both. And when she’d take it out on Stiles, things between her and I would be fine."

"So you sat back and watched it happen."

John glared up at him. "I know I’m partly to blame here. It’s just- I loved her."

"Maybe you should have loved Stiles too."

"But I-" He looked at his hands. He was imagining Stiles' blood on them. The blood he'd spilled. "- I do." He nodded to himself. "I do love him."

Derek was done. "Prove it."

"How?"

"Tell me where he is."

John wiped at the blood running down his chin. "He'll be at the cemetery." He tried to sit up straighter. "What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to make sure _your son_ is safe."

Tears started falling down his bloody face.

Derek stared at the crumpled man. "He's not coming back here. Not right now." He continued before the sheriff could interupt. "Do whatever you want about it. You can even arrest me later. But remember; I know what I know."

Derek walked out. No other words spoken between them.

There was nothing left to say.

　

　

Stiles sloshed the foul tasting liquid around his mouth. Hating himself when he swallowed. The burn was instant. His stomach jumped. It didn't stop him from taking another drink.

Everything was slow and cold.

No.

The air around him was cold. He was warm. Warm and fuzzy. Blissfully unfeeling

He was going to be just like his dad. Statistically speaking, it was likely. Children of alcoholics were more likely to struggle with abuse and addiction. Which explained so fucking much.

He took another drink and pulled back. The sound of liquid gurgling in the bottle made him sick. With every drink, the cheap vodka stopped tasting as bad.

He glanced at his mother's grave. _Looks like we both fell apart without you._

　

He'd opened his eyes that morning, instantly regretting it. He flopped over.

Maybe he should just sleep through the day.

Unconsciousness was easier.

It didn't work out. His mind was awake and loud and annoying.

He sat up, hating the world.

His father had been adimant about spending the day together but when seven in the morning came, he'd entered Stiles' room and said he'd be out for a bit. And to go back to sleep.

Stiles had listened, if ony because sleep sounded freaking marvelous.

It was already eleven thirty.

He threw on jeans and his usual t-shirt/flannel ensemble.

He wanted to text Derek but...

The sadness in his eyes from yesterday was still fresh in his mind.

He went to the kitchen and managed half a bowl of cereal before the rain started in. He dumped it. Who liked soggy cereal anyway?

 

Numb. It felt like the static screen on televisions when you went to a nonexistent channel.

He didn't cry. Or lament at the memory of his mother.

He sat impassively in the downpour.

 

He popped a white pill into his mouth. Hydrocodone was a semi-synthetic opioid synthesized from codeine. One of the opioid alkaloids found in the opium poppy. An amazing little pill that allowed Stiles to stay tingly and unfeeling.

He stared at the ceiling. At the dots. At his mother's pendant.

His phone went off somewhere.

He was floating.

Things were less awesome about an hour later when his stomach decided it didn't like Hydros as much as his mind did. He jumped up, barely making it to the bathroom. His knees hit the floor and he threw up until the pressure in his head bordered on excrutiating.

The pills he'd taken didn't come up. They'd been in his stomach too long.

Standing up proved to be a mistake. His stomach was like the rolling sea. That'd didn't stop him from getting up anyway, hand on the counter. His own eyes in the mirror were open wide but his pupils were narrowed. Pin pricks of black.

He caught a glimpse of a shadow behind him. He turned to look at the wall.

Nothing.

He turned back to the mirror. There it was again.

He blinked. The shadow dispelled.

 

Suffering was unavoidable.

His mom agonized over that. She’d say it over the sounds of tears. She’d say it through the closet door.

We suffer because we have wants. Desires.

Stiles suffered because he wanted freedom. From the past. From his dad. He wanted to be happy. He wanted Derek.

Suffering was a part of life. That didn't make it any less painful.

 

 

John came home at four that day. Stiles was caught off guard in the living room. He'd been fantasizing about the mundane lives of the dust bunnies under the couch. Did they have to deal with the death of a parent? Maybe every time he swept under there, removing a few, he was destroying a family. Leaving behind a little one who had to live on, knowing their mom was dead.

He doubted it though; after all, they were only dust bunnies.

The door opened.

Stiles didn't have enough time to run upstairs. He stood in greeting. "Hey, dad."

His dad nodded to him. He stepped closer. "Hey."

It felt like the air was sucked out of the room.

"Do you miss her?"

Stiles swallowed. "Yes."

John nodded. His eyes never left him.

"Dad? What's-" John took another step forward. "-what's wrong?"

His face jaw was working in circles. He didn't say anything. Just stepped closer still.

They were arms length apart.

Stiles wanted to run. To leave-

"Can you give your old man a hug? It's been a long day."

That's- he wasn't expecting that.

Stiles nodded. He willingly shuffled into his father's embrace.

His father wrapped his arms around him. "I love you, son."

He nodded against his father's shoulder. "I love you too."

Stiles pulled away.

His father's face had changed.

Danger. Danger.

The teen stepped backwards, ready to flee. John lunged.

He grabbed Stiles by his shirt front and slammed him to the ground.

He had the sense to keep his head up, preventing a solid impact with the floor.

Stiles' own hands frantically grabbed at John's. His father bashed him repeatedly into the floor until he was dizzy and the sound of his own heart beat echoed loudly in his ears.

He pulled Stiles into a sitting position and forced him against the wall.

The teen was processing everything at half speed. He wanted to check out. To retreat inside himself and-

A hand wrapped around his throat.

He tried to shake it off. There was no strength in his limbs.

Another hand joined it.

Breathing was painful.

"Get-" Stiles gasped, "-off!" He grabbed at his father's hands, trying to loosen the grip around his neck. It only tightened.

He was trying to fly out of his body. Fly away from the pain.

"You shouldn't be here," John cursed. His eyes were filled with hatred.

Stiles tried to fight him. He squeezed his father's arms. Pried at his wrists.

He jerked a knee up, aiming for anything that might make John let go.

John used his hold to pull Stiles forward and then roughly backwards.

The sound of his head hitting the wall crackled in Stiles' ears. His vision turned white. There was a buzzing.

He didn't want to be there.

He wanted to be with Derek at the loft. With Derek in his bed.

Stiles thrashed. He clawed at his father's hands. The sounds of his heels hitting the floor as he scrambled for purchase was almost inaudible over his gasping. He managed to draw his other knee up to kick John's groin.

He cursed, letting go of Stiles.

He gulped a breath of sweet oxygen, not knowing if he'd get another chance.

"You fucker!" He grabbed Stiles' shirt front with both hands. Who in turn grabbed at his fingers.

John pulled him up to his feet. "Make it easier for me!" He screamed in Stiles' face.

How had he not smelled the alcohol before? It was overpowering. His voice was choked. "OK, dad. I-I'll leave. Just let go of me and I can-"

John pinned Stiles to the wall. "No. Then you could come back." His eyes were crazed. His pupils blown wide. "And torment me more." John pulled his fist back. "Just like your mom."

Stiles couldn't find his voice. Must've dropped it on the floor somewhere.

John's fist hit the wall at the same time Stiles dropped to a crouch.

He dodged sideways for the stairs. His dad cursed after him. Light footfalls were echoed by louder, heavier stomps. He felt finger tips touch his pant leg.

Stiles jumped the last two steps and made it to his room. He slammed the door in his father's face. He flipped the lock. The pounding started two seconds later. Every bang made Stiles jump.

"Stiles, open this fucking door-" _Bang._

He rushed around his room, throwing clothes into a duffel bag. He pocketed his keys and phone. He dug out the bottle of vodka he'd found. After a moment of staring at the clear alcohol, it went in the bag because why the fuck not.

_Bang. Bang._ "This is my house-" _Bang._ "-when I open this door-"

Stiles opened the window and tossed his duffel into the grass below. He straddled the sill, slipping into his shoes.

It felt so similar to that day months prior. He looked to the door. The wood buckled and pulsed. He watched water flow from under it. The room would be an ocean, consumed by his father's powerful fury.

_So similar, yet so different._

Because this time, if John caught him, he would die.

The door broke under his father's boot. Not from the force of the tide.

He appeared as the door splintered, wood flying everywhere. The sheriff was breathing heavily, hands clenched at his sides.

Stiles chose that time to jump.

He hit the ground, his breath getting sucked out with an 'oomf'.

"Stiles, get your ass back here," John called, body half out the window.

He threw the duffel into his Jeep and hopped in after it. He backed out and sped away.

It wasn't until his house was out of sight he let the tears fall.

His phone vibrated non-stop. He threw it in backseat.

Stiles had ended up at the cemetery. Maybe his mom had guided him there.

He promised himself he'd get Derek's help when he calmed down a little.

He promised himself a lot of things.

　

The bottle was empty after an hour.

_Look at you. Pathetic._

"No," he argued aloud. He put his head in cupped hands.

_Disgusting. Hated._

He shook his head 'no'. He couldn't answer verbally.

"You're just like him," came a familiar female voice.

He looked up from his hands. "Mom?" His voice cracked.

She wasn't there. Just that stupid stone.

_Do you hate yourself? You should._

"Stop!" He threw the bottle at his mother's grave stone. It shattered in an explosive display of clear glass.

The rain started again.

He sat in it, soaking wet.

His chest was tight. Like a rope being gradually tightened around his heart. Every breath pulled at the vice.

The flood waters continued to rise around him.

 

The shards glinted in the light of the setting sun. _You should just die._

There was a phrase the French used: L’appel du vide.

The call of the void.

It echoed loudly within him because he was hollow at the core.

It was that tiny voice telling you to jerk the steering wheel and take a flying leap off a ledge. To walk into the ocean and never return.

The feeling when you’re on a steep cliff and have a strong desire to leap.

Most people don't listen. Most people don't jump.

They stand, face to face with the precipice and inch forward. As far as they dare. They let the great depth overwhelm them. Then they climb back down, return to life, and wait until the next time when they stand with the wind in their faces, toes on the edge and wonder. "What if?"

Our brains model situations and contemplate alternatives. We think about whether to ask that special person to dinner, or to have another bowl of cereal, or whether to use mouth wash. We are constantly looking at a lot of possible ‘alternate futures’. Possible ‘what ifs?".

When you’re standing on the edge of a high place, one of those possible futures is "I take a step forward." We know this would bring unforunate consequences. Our internal censor- the part that keeps us from asking an aquaintance for oral sex, having an entire box of cereal, or drinking the mouth wash- stops us. "That's dangerous! Do Not Do That!"

We keep ‘jumping’ in mind because it is one of our alternatives.

Most people don’t jump.

Stiles stared into the precipice. He fantasized about jumping. Until the day came when he actually did.

The same day his mom had died seven years prior.

He fiddled with a triangular piece of glass. Held it against his skin.

His mom was there. She smiled at him.

He looked back to his arm. The skin there was mottled with bruises. Scars and cuts in varying degrees of depth.

_Am I really doing this?_

His mom nodded to him.

The vision of the shard in his hand blurred. He took a deep breath in.

Resolve.

The rain stopped. The water was gone. Her grave acted as a drain.

He could breathe.

He ripped the glass across his arm.

There was no pain. Just a sensation of flesh splitting. A slight pressure as his skin seperated. He used all of his strength on the next two motions.

The lines he made were crooked but deep. Not as clean as the other cuts. But he wasn't used to the rougher intricacies of glass.

There was a lot of blood.

His mother brushed a pale hand against his forehead. "My Genim."

He looked up at her. She was the same mom from Hawaii. The same mom who tucked him in.

She wasn't the mom who withheld love and food. Who yelled at him until his head hurt. Who gave him bruises and blamed it on his own clumsiness.

"Mom..." he slurred. _I miss you._

"I know."

_Dad misses you._

She crouched in front of him. "I miss my Genim." She touched his chin. "Come with me."

Thinking was difficult. Everything was slow. But he could breathe. And there was no tide threatening to pull him under.

Derek had been right all those months ago; Stiles wasn’t living. He was surviving. Existing day to day. He was hovering in between worlds.

Sometimes he was just existing. Sometimes he wanted to die.

Sometimes he actively sought death.

　

　

There was a gravel lot at the cemetery. Derek pulled in and spotted Stiles' haphazardly parked Jeep. He jumped out of his car and jogged to the window. No Stiles.

He didn't know where Claudia's grave was. He jogged down the gravel walkway.

It was already dark by the time he found Stiles. The evening cold was setting in.

He was facing a gravestone, back to Derek.

"Stiles," he called. There were less than six feet between them.

Stiles almost fell forward as he scrambled to his feet. He turned to the voice. Not necessarily looking relieved when he saw who was standing there. "-Derek? Why're you..." he trailed off.

"Your dad told me you'd be here."

He nodded. "Ohh, my dad..." His brow furrowed. "When did you talk to him?"

"A little bit ago." He left out the details.

"Oh. Well, you found me. I'm good so you can go back or whatever."

Somethine was wrong. Somethine was wrong with him. And however infantile, Derek provocated him. He wasn't going to leave or bullshit his way out again. "Stiles, I know what she did to you."

"No, you-" he shook his head, "- you don't."

"John told me."

Stiles had a look of such betrayal on his face that Derek was rethinking his approach.

He stepped closer, reaching a hand towards him. "Let me help you-"

Stiles took a step back. His eyes were wide. "Get away from me."

"Stiles, I'm not-"

He shook his head again. "No."

The dots connected.

Stiles was wasted. Or high. Or both. Paranoid, wasted, angry, and panicked. Fucking excellent. He was _really_ rethinking his approach.

Derek grabbed his hand as he turned to run off somewhere. He wasn't going to let him wander into the forest in his state.

Stiles pulled at his hand. "Let go of me!"

Derek didn't. He couldn't.

Stiles hit his chest. Derek had pretty much expected that. It was akin to being pelted with a beanie baby.

"I'm staying here with you." He kept his hold.

Stiles’ fist kissed his chest in a desperate flurry.

He didn’t try to bat away or grab the pale, thin hand; he just stood. Stiles needed this. Needed someone to _feel_ him.

Derek could be that person.

"Let go!" Tears streaked his wind-chaffed face.

"No, Stiles," he said evenly. He wasn't going to leave him.

"I don't want you here!"

Derek held his ground. Stiles’ hits slowed until he was weakly pushing against his chest.

The man let go of his hand. Stiles was close enough to just bear hug if he tried to run.

He grabbed the front of Derek's leather jacket. "Please. Just leave me alone. I don't want you-"His voice was pleading. "-seeing me. Like this."

Derek covered Stiles’ cold hands with his own. "I’m not leaving you alone."

Stiles ripped his hands away.

Derek's eyes zeroed in on his arm.

Blood soaked through his sleeve.

Stiles was saying something under his breath.

There was so much blood.

Derek had a philosophical question to ask. Occam’s razor, it was called. When two solutions have the same results, choose the simplest one.

If he didn’t check the damage to his arm, Stiles could bleed out.

If he did check his arm, Stiles would most likely, correction, _definitely_ fight back.

That was when Occam’s razor came into play.

Coaxing Stiles would take long and may upset the teen even more if the negotiations proceeded, which made the point moot anyway because if the cuts were bleeding heavily enough, he’d pass out before he willingly let Derek near him.

The other, simpler option (that Derek knew was really the _only_ option) was to force him. Take his thin little arms, fend off his punches, ignore his words, and see if he needed a hospital.

Stiles was already angry with him. He was rubbed raw, nerve endings painfully exposed. He was ashamed. And Derek was about to hurt him more. It was better than the alternative- letting him die.

Stiles stepped backwards, instinct telling him to get the hell out.

Derek reacted with the speed and strength of a born predator.

He caught the hand peaking out of the blood soaked sleeve, spinning Stiles' body to face him. He stopped the teen's other hand by proximity and body-weight alone. Pressing close enough so scratching him was impossible.

Stiles spit out curses, words meant to tear strips off him. "I hate you!" He screamed. The teen's shame was palpable.

Desperation had brought out all of his fighting instincts. At the very root of our brains, when upbringing and societal behaviors were stripped away, what remained was the lizard brain. It was responsible for instinctual behaviors involved in aggression, dominance, and ritual displays. The lizard brain was pure instinct.

Stiles' intoxicated brain told him Derek was there to do something unpleasant.

His lizard brain told him to fight. To not let this guy cause any more pain, physical or emotional.

He accepted this without any personal hurt. Stiles was a wounded animal; backed into a corner and lashing at any helping hands for fear of further injury.

He slid to his knees, trying to get low enough to kick out Derek's legs. The man followed him to the ground. For a moment, they kneeled there face to face, in the cold grass. In front a cold stone.

Then he tried to rip his hand away. That didn't work.

Stiles couldn’t kick him because of the man's proximity and utter size. Derek was practically straddling his knees.

"I have to do this, Stiles," he said, voice steady.

The teen jerked his head up to look at him. Trying to beat the larger, muscled man off. The look of pure hatred and acid-hot panic was written with perfect clarity across Stiles’ face. The hand that was pinioned between their chests managed to twist enough for Derek to feel fingernails digging into one side of his chest. Deseperate and hard.

"Stiles, you could die-" there was more thrashing. Stiles' was breathing was erratic. Panicked.

"Well…!" Stiles snapped between struggles, trying to jerk sideways and failing. Trying to free his left hand and failing. "…That’d be better!" There were tears dampening his lashes, spilling in silence down his cheeks and lips and chin.

He felt a twinge of pity as Stiles’ fury began to shatter slowly into sobs of shame and panic and self-hatred.

Derek twisted his body-one coordinated heave of muscle- so he was pressing his back against Stiles’ chest. The injured, thin arm pulled forward in his grasp.

The teen's other hand pounded against his back. Stiles tried to yank his arm free, but Derek had it beneath his armpit and held tight in the iron circle of one hand. He was effectively pinned behind him, legs thrashing ineffectively at his sides.

"No!" He felt the teen renew his efforts to get away; fingers pressed pin-point bruises to Derek’s shoulder blades. His lizard brain was on high alert. Thrusters at maximum power. _Danger danger pain leave fight run run bad-_

Stiles’ head collapsed against his back. The wild, desperate curses fell apart into feeble mumbles. "No. Don't look. You always see me like this. I don't want- Please…" He started coughing. Derek could feel the fit rattling right through the teen's body.

Only the inebraited, panicked side was fighting Derek. The rational, thinking side was being pushed under the blanket of intoxication and stress. But it on the verge of breaking down all resistance. As his strength waned and the adrenalin was used up, that latter part was winning. It drained Stiles’ will to fight Derek.

The man pushed his sleeve up to assess the damage.

Some of the cuts were deep but they were too close together for sutures. There was a worrying amount of blood. Which had to do with the dullness of whatever he'd used. Derek eyed the glass sitting in a heap of shards. It looked like he'd taken a serrated knife to his arm. Stitches would be ineffective.

Hospital or not.

There'd be questions. Has he taken any drugs? Why is he covered in bruises? How long has he been doing this? How long have you known? Strange relationship for a teacher and a student-

They'd call John. He was Stiles' father, after all. He'd be sent back home.

Legally Derek was powerless.

They could do without the hospital, then. The cuts had stopped bleeding. Maybe he just could-

He took a breath.

He'd wait it out.

Derek made up his mind and let go of Stiles' arm.

The teen automatically scooted back.

Derek jumped to a crouch and swiveled to look at him.

The teen's eyes were wide. He was pulling his sleeve down and holding it against his chest. He was shaking, breath hitching. He was too shocked and panicked to try and run. Or so Derek hoped.

"Stiles, do you want to go somewhere and-"

"No!" he yelled, hands wrapping around his indrawn knees.

"That's fine," Derek put his palms up. Like one does with a wild animal. _I'm not a threat._ He put his butt to the ground. Trying to make himself smaller. "We can stay here, if that's what you want."

Stiles mumbled something. Lucidity was a concern.

"Did you-" Derek tried to find the right way to ask. "- What did you take?"

Stiles wiped the back of a hand over his eyes. "I didn't OD, if that's what you're asking." His speech sounded drunk. Which answered his question enough.

Stiles looked fragile. A tight bundle of nerves barely contained within his flesh.

Derek scooted closer so he was sitting parallel to him.

The teen didn't register him moving.

"I'm here," Derek said, looking at the stone. Though he wasn't seeing what Stiles was seeing.

_Loving mother, daughter, Friend._

_Claudia Stilinski_

_At rest in death's embrace._

Stiles was trembling.

Derek wanted to give him his jacket, but that might've been too much for him to process. ' _He just did that, made me feel that much pain, and now he's trying to help?_ '

"Stiles, talk to me."

He shook his head.

"Please."

Stiles looked over at him. His eyes seemed more present. Like he was just putting it together that Derek was only there to help. "I don't know -" he broke off. "- where to start."

They skated towards the edge. Dull horror flooded the man. He desperately wanted to hear it. Just as deseperately, he didn't.

"From the beginning."

But it wasn't about Derek. If Stiles needed to say it, then it'd be said.

It was surreal for him to see Stiles' go from rabid fury to resigned calm in a matter of minutes. Some part of him recognized Derek's actions as necessary. Even though his actions came at the cost of his pride.

"She wasn't always-" he stopped. _A monster_ , Derek wanted to suggest, "-like she was at the end. She loved traveling. And she was so gentle. So kind. She was the light of my life. And when things got stressful for my dad at the station, she was there to hold him together."

Derek was listening in anticipation. Like the first incline for a roller coaster. The inevitable drop was coming. It was ahead; just out of sight.

"I loved her. And I trusted her." His arms tightened around his knees. His words were slurred. His eyes not exactly focused on anything.

But he needed this. He needed someone to listen.

Derek would be that someone.

"The first time it happened I was six. I fell down the stairs and broke my arm. My dad came rushing down the stairs after he heard me scream. He drove me to the hospital. He was yelling at my mom in the passenger seat. _'How did it happen? Why weren't you watching him?' 'I don't know, John. He's clumsy, you know that. He was out of my sight for a second.',_ " Stiles recited. Word for word, Derek would bet. He'd probably gone over the scene hundreds of times. "But I know I didn't just fall. Because when I looked up, she was standing there. And I thought it was strange because she was smiling." He shook his head. "I didn't fall; she pushed me."

Derek swallowed. His throat was tight.

"Two months later she was diagnosed with Frontotemporal dementia. FTD for short. It's the presentation of frontotemporal lobar degeneration. With progressive neuronal loss in the frontal and temporal lobes," Stiles rattled off with the same tone and diction of someone reading from a script. He'd had the explanation ingrained in his memory, able to recall even while intoxicated. "FTD...changes people."

Derek nodded, though Stiles wasn't looking at him. He reached a hand to wrap around Stiles' waist, thinking him sober enough now to remember he wasn't the bad guy. The teen wiggled closer. He kept his knees to his chest.

"I'm here," Derek whispered.

The teen nodded minutely. "Changes in social behavior. Poor impulse control. Anxiety. Depression." He took a breath. "Apathy. Binge eating. Snatching food from others. She lost her job after going off on her boss for stealing her wallet. She'd actually left it at home that day. She was loud in public; she'd yell at my dad in the grocery store. Or take her shoes off and wander through town. Something was wrong."

His knees shook. "I don't know what made me her target. But something snapped in her brain and I wasn't her child anymore. I was a changeling that'd taken the real Stiles. And I was there to kill her. She'd-" he tripped over his words "- it was really bad after she lost her job because she was home more. Dad worked the same hours. Her and I were home alone a lot until I was eight and she couldn't take care of herself, let alone her child. She'd- there was a closet."

His breathing was picking up."Stiles, you're here. With me."

He stared forward blankly. "In her mind, if I was locked away, I couldn't come for her soul or whatever the disease had convinced her. And the thing with food- it doesn't effect everyone. That's what her doctor said. Well, it effected her. At dinner, she'd take food from dad and I. Dad told me to just let her do it. But he didn't know that during the day, she had this thing about not letting me eat. _'You don't need it. Let your mother eat, she's hungry'_. And I loved my mom so I didn't pester her too much. And dad kept acting like nothing was wrong with her. I- I didn't know why he wouldn't just _listen_ to me. But now I know what my dad was doing everytime he brushed me off. He was just ducking his head and letting me deal with what she was becoming." Stiles was shaking uncontrollably.

Derek peeled off his jacket and draped it across his trembling shoulders. Stiles pulled it closer to his body. Because of the cold or the comfort, Derek didn't know.

"I was so _scared_. And I didn't understand. She was my mom." He sniffed. "And sometimes, sometimes, she'd have good days. She'd be lucid. She would be my mom again. It was draining. She'd throw a glass at me and the next morning smile and make pancakes. That was the worst. I never knew when mom would come back. It was unfair. It just kept giving me hope." He nodded to himself. "And hope is what fucked me over in the end."

Derek kissed his cheek. His own eyes were threatening to spill over with tears.

"Why didn't she want me?" He asked no one.

"She was sick," Derek offered. Knowing that didn't change the horror of what she'd done.

"I just wanted her back, you know?" He wiped at his eyes. "I wanted her to go back to the way she was. Not just one good day out of twenty." He shook his head. "But she never did."

"Dad danced around her behavior. Made excuses. Or made _me_ sound like the one who was doing something wrong. I- I didn't know why he wouldn't just _listen_ to me. But now I know what he was really doing everytime he brushed me off. He was just ducking his head and letting me deal with what she was becoming. And I just let it happen. Because no one could do anything. Nobody _wanted_ to do anything."

He burrowed into Derek’s side. Shaking fingers clutched at his ribs. Derek held him. His Henley was stained with tears. Derek rubbed his back.

"She did all of that-" He sounded choked. "-and I, I still love her."

Derek squeezed him. "It's because even though you went through shit, you didn't lose your heart."

Stiles turned further into Derek, head on his chest. Derek wrapped his arms around the teen's shaking body.

"Then she died and dad started drinking and-" he choked up. "I thought I only lost one parent when she died but I lost both of them. And, and I-" His words were lost to incoherent sobs.

Derek held him close. He stroked a hand through Stiles' hair. "It's OK now," he whispered. Stiles couldn't hear him.

He stared at the stone, listening to the words pour out of Stiles’ mouth. Words locked away inside of him for so long. Holding him down like chains.

He felt every second like a brand against his skin.

Though it wasn't right, Derek found himself thankful that Claudia was gone. Unable to hurt Stiles anymore. He was happy she was dead.

"I don't want you to leave." His breath hitched.

Derek squeezed his hand. "I won't."

Derek gathered him close, wrapping himself around the teen. He kissed his face. He was talking to the teen but he didn't know what he was saying. He might've been telling him how much he loved him. And that he'd never loved anyone else as much. He might've been cursing Claudia. Or John for causing so much pain. He had no idea. It didn't matter. Those things were all true, whether he told Stiles or not.

The man didn't know if his words were being understood or if the blanket of whatever Stiles had taken was covering up their meaning. He still wasn't completely there.

"I'm going to take care of you, OK?" He whispered. Stiles' sobs and hitched breaths stabbed daggers into his heart.

The teen had been been crying and shaking. Then he wasn't.

He was unconscious to the world. To the suffering life unapologetically dealt him.

Derek picked him up bridal style, an arm under the crook of his legs and the other supporting his back. He stood and god damn, he weighed nothing. He walked the short distance to his Camaro.

He put Stiles in the passenger seat, draping his leather jacket across his front.

The teen stirred, eyes flying open. Fully alert.

Derek brushed knuckles against his face. "You're safe."

Stiles looked around him. He swallowed. "I have a bag. In my Jeep."

Derek nodded.

He found the phone and duffel bag in the backseat.

Derek grabbed both and jogged back to his car. They'd worry about retrieving the Jeep later.

He threw the duffel into the back and pocketed Stiles' cell.

The man climbed into the front seat. He started the engine.

"I was going to call you." Stiles coughed. "I was going to-"

Derek reached over to squeeze his hand. "I know." He felt pride swell in his chest. Stiles had planned to seek him out, even if it'd been the other way in the end.

The teen drifted out again.

It wasn't until on the way to the loft he was able to take Stiles completely in.

His shirt was stretched from obvious fist marks.

He had bruises on his face. And on his neck.

Derek gripped the steering wheel. A wave of rage crashed over him.

He could turn around, find that _asshole_ , and-

Stiles made a noise. Something like a whimper.

Derek looked between his pained expression and the road ahead.

He forced himself to calm down. Stiles needed him.

　

　

"I’m dying."

Derek sifted his hand through Stiles’ hair. "You’re not dying; you’re hungover."

Stiles pushed back into the warm palm massaging his scalp. "Is there really a difference between the two?"

The man snorted. "Go back to sleep, Stiles."

He snuggled further into the pillow. "’Kay."

 

Stiles slept for two days. Waking up long enough to run to the bathroom, puke, apologize, and then fall back asleep.

 

"When can my body stop rejecting everything? I feel like shit."

Derek handed him a glass of water. "That's what happens- only take sips of that-" Stiles glared but did as he was told, "- when you mix pills and alcohol."

Stiles held the glass, hands shaking slightly. Probably from dehydration and the remaining shock leaving his body. "Are you speaking from experience?"

"Maybe."

Stiles gasped. " _My_ innocent little Derek has done a drug?" Derek bristled at being called 'little'. Stiles raised the glass to his mouth. "I am so shocked," he said in a way that meant he was anything but.

Derek took the glass from his hands before throwing a pillow at him.

 

On day three, he was able to stay awake longer.

 

"So what exactly happened?" Stiles said, laying on his back. Derek thought he'd been asleep.

"When?" Derek looked up from a half constructed curriculm plan.

"Um, like how are you not in jail...?" His brow furrowed. "And how has my dad not stormed your loft?"

"I might have threatened him."

Stiles sat up. "Threatened him..." Derek could see his mind work. His eyes widened. "Derek- what did you do?"

"I handled it."

He tilted his head forward. "Derek."

"I implied I'd ruin his career with the information I had on him."

Stiles squinted. "Really?"

"Yes."

"Anything else?"

Derek kept his mouth shut.

"So you just threatened him and walked away. Calmly." He pursed his lips. "That doesn't sound like you."

He was too injured to be _that_ aware of his surroundings. Perceptive little shit. "I may have broken his nose," he admitted finally.

Stiles blinked. "You did WHAT?"

"I punched him a few other places too."

"Fuck. The can is open. Worms are everywhere," he said, hands miming a worm-explosion.

"I said I handled it."

Stiles sat up straighter, hugging a pillow in his lap. "So it was like actual fisticuffs with my father?" He asked, a gleam in his eye that was somewhat out of place for their current subject matter.

"Yes. I would have hit him more but I needed him conscious," Derek stated flatly.

Stiles seemed to consider that. "I don’t know what it is but the thought of you going all vigilante justice really does something for me."

"Kinky."

The teen huffed. "You've given me a fetish."

Derek supposed he shouldn’t have laughed but it’d been a rough few days. "I'll keep that in mind."

 

That night Stiles sat up in bed. Derek was laying next to him, drifting in and out.

He sounded wide awake. "I hit you."

"I wouldn't call it a 'hit'," Derek rumbled into his pillow. He turned his head to look at Stiles.

The teen chewed on his bottom lip. "I'm sorry."

Derek caressed his hand. "Don't be."

"Derek, I'm serious-"

"And so am I."

"I'm a terrible boyfriend," he lamented. "I could have hurt you."

Derek gave him a once over. "I highly doubt that."

"What're you implying?"

The man reached over and lifted Stiles' arm. It reminded him of a limp spaghetti noodle.

Stiles pulled away. "That's rude."

"You know how you can make it up to me?" Derek mumbled, voice rough.

Stiles looked genuinely attentive. "How?"

He patted the blanket right next to him. "Scoot closer and go to sleep?"

"I thought you were being serious." He sounded unimpressed.

"I am. Now get over here."

Stiles did as he was told. Derek was warm.

They were both asleep five minutes later.

 

Day four had him sore but healing well. Eating was still kind of hit or miss.

 

"He-uh, do I have to say it?" Stiles asked.

"I'm going to need a little more to go on than 'he fucked my shit up'. The hospital isn't completely out of the question yet." Derek crossed his arms.

"Fine. Fine." Stiles ran a hand through his hair."There was punching and kicking and some choking towards the end."

Derek nodded tightly. He wanted to push John down a flight of stairs into a pit of fire. It must've shown on his face.

"OK, dude. Just stay calm," Stiles said, hands motioning in a sooth manner.

"I am perfectly fucking calm-" Derek stopped. "Imagine I said that in a calm way."

"I'm trying."

"I just-" he shook his head, "-I should have hit him more."

 

Day five came. He was still exhausted.

 

"Have you, you know, talked to _him_?" The teen's eyes darted away. "My dad?"

Derek held up Stiles' phone. "I've been texting him from your phone."

Stiles didn't comment on the breach of privacy. He'd already invaded the man's phone and changed all of the contact pictures to cats. "What's he been saying...?"

Derek leaned forward to kiss his forehead. "Don't worry about it, babe."

Stiles grabbed at his shirt collar, pulling him down for a hug.

Derek braced himself for questions. Or an arguement.

Stiles spoke into his shoulder. "I like it when you call me 'babe'."

Derek huffed against the teen's hair. "Perv." He pulled away, growing serious. "If it's fine with you, you'll be staying here for awhile longer."

"Really?" If Stiles was a cat, his ears would have perked up.

"Yes. Only if you're-"

"Definitely."

Derek blinked. He hadn't expected it to be that easy-

"Did I say that too quickly? I mean, I don't know Derek, I might need to think it over..." Stiles smiled.

And Derek did too.

 

The sixth day passed.

 

"I’ve been thinking-"

"That's dangerous," Derek interjected without looking up from the cutting board.

"-Uncalled for. But seriously." Stiles was watching the pot diligently for the water to start boiling. "I need to go home."

Derek turned to him. "That's a terrible idea."

"I don't mean _go_ home, I mean I need to get some stuff. And did you forget my Jeep is still at the cemetery?"

Derek looked back down to the chicken he was cutting. "We should just leave it there for someone to steal."

Stiles gasped. "You take that back."

Derek didn't. "Why don't we go when your father isn't home?"

Stiles added pasta to the boiling water. "Sounds good."

 

On the seventh day, he was gaining his stamina back (which, admittedly, hadn't been much before anyway). His arms were healing well.

 

Derek was bandaging the teen's arm on the couch.

"I can do it myself."

"I don't mind."

"Well, I _do_."

Derek finished the job as he said: "Tough."

Stiles took his arm back. "Thank you, I guess. Even though I don't have a choice, apparently."

Derek packed up the kit. "I'm going to as you something. I'm not being critical. I want to know."

"Yeah...?" Stiles agreed suspicously.

"Why do you cut?"

He rubbed his neck. "I have poor problem management?"

"Stiles. Please." Derek sounded lost.

"I don't really know how to explain this in a way that'd make sense."

"Can you try for me?"

"It's kind of like this- I've lived most of my life with no control. I haven't had control over who hurts me or how they hurt me." He touched his chest without realizing it. "And it's caused this unbearable pain inside. So if I can just kill the pain on the inside, I feel better."

"And you do that by hurting yourself on the outside?"

"Yeah. Like a distraction, I guess. It's...it's a different type of pain. And I have control of it, you know, I'm getting hurt on my own terms so-" Stiles shook his head. "I've never explained this before so I'm proably not making any sense-"

"I'm going to do something and I want you to be quiet."

The teen looked unsure. "OK...?"

Derek leaned forward and hugged him. He kissed Stiles' shoulder. "I'm here for you. And I always will be." He inhaled. On the exhale, he said, "I love you."

Stiles tensed. "Were you serious about that whole be quiet thing-"

"Stiles."

"OK. Fine, shutting up now." He wrapped his arms around Derek. Caught between wanting to cry and wanting to smile. He did both.

Derek pulled away after another minute.

Stiles wiped at his eyes. "Can I talk now?"

He nodded.

"I love you too." Stiles took a breath. "-And I really want to kiss you now."

Derek laughed with tears in his eyes. He didn't think he'd even be this happy after the fire."Is this really the time?"

Stiles scooted forward until their faces were inches apart. "Definitely."

　

　

"I want to have sex with you."

It had come out of nowhere.

Derek was on the couch, enjoying The Call of Cthulhu (on Stiles' recommendation) when the teen himself appeared. Whenever Stiles had that determined look on his face, something was going to happen.

"What?"

He just didn’t expect it to be _this._ He thought maybe Stiles was done with him. Maybe he wanted to stay somewhere else. Or he'd jammed the shower handle again.

Stiles set his jaw. "I want to have sex with you."

" _Now?_ "

"Yes, right now."

Derek closed the book. "Stiles, what’s this about?"

He shuffled on his feet. "Nothing. I just want to do it."

Derek gave him The Look.

Stiles flung his arms out in an exasperated motion. "Fine. OK. We’ve been ‘living’ together for over a week now. Same bed. Constant contact and not once have you…made a move…" His earlier confidence deflated.

Derek exhaled through his nose before responding. "You’re bothered by the fact I haven’t tried to get into your pants?"

"Yeah! Am I doing something wrong? There have been so many opportunities-"

"Stiles, I don’t want to have sex with you."

"...Oh. Um," Stiles didn’t know what to say. He looked down. "…why?"

Derek stood up, closing the gap between them in two strides. "Maybe it has something to do with your current mental state. _And_ you’re a minor."

"I just thought maybe you never wanted to do it with me. Because I’m," he made a vague gesture at his body,"- not good enough" His eyes darted away. "Or something."

Derek tilted Stiles’ head up. _Look at me._ "The reason, I haven’t ‘made a move on you’ is because it’s not a good idea right now." Before the teen could twist the words in his brain, Derek continued. "I said not right now. Not that I’d never have sex with you."

He planted a kiss on Stiles’ mouth. "And you are good enough. I don’t want to hear that." He wrapped his arms around hus shoulders. The teen pressed his face to the broad, comforting chest.

"And this week has been difficult." Derek closed his eyes and nodded to himself. "Very difficult."

Stiles snorted and looked up at him. "How so?"

His hands slid lower to rest on his waist. He exhaled. "I _really_ want to have sex with you."

Stiles laughed.

 

The whole 'wait until Stiles is legal' thing didn't sit well with the teen himself. So they at least agreed until he was healed. It was a month later. He was physically fine.

He just wanted to feel _something_. Derek, in particular.

They were still at the loft and neither could bear to wait. He approached Derek in the living room. And this time, under different circumstances, the man said yes.

Derek examined him in a slow pass. Beginning with his mouth and ending at his hips. Stiles felt his gaze like a caress.

"Derek…" he whispered, tongue darting out to wet his lips. He felt like he was in the desert. A sort of dry heat enveloped him.

The older man followed the motion of Stiles’ tongue. Green eyes were blown wide. A second later his hand was on the back of Stiles’ neck. His senses were filled with Stiles. He wanted more. He shoved even closer, nosing Stiles’ neck.

"You smell so good," he said against the pale, smooth skin. The other shuddered. The breath on his neck was warm. Derek was the only one who could quench the thirst that was consuming Stiles.

Derek grabbed a handful of Stiles’ hair, loving the perfect length of strands in his palm. He used the grip to pull his head back.

Stiles shivered when teeth nipped gently over his pulse point. He tipped his head back even further, melting into the man’s arms.

Derek mouthed his neck. Cupping his hard cock through his jeans.

"You like that?" He pulled back enough to see Stiles’ expression. "Me, marking you?" Derek stroked a wayward hair from lust-blown eyes.

"Yes." Stiles didn't bother to deny how much Derek marking and sucking affected him. He was Derek's completely, holding nothing back.

Stiles sighed into the all-encompassing kiss that followed. There was no fight for dominance. No tongue-wrestling for ‘who is in control’. Stiles gave himself entirely.

They kissed him again. Relentlessly and hungry. Passionate.

Stiles could’ve spontaneously combusted from the pure heat Derek put under his skin.

Derek gripped him by the hips, fingers clutching him. He moved down and squeezed the globes of his ass.

Stiles whimpered and clung to Derek. Desperate. The fever in him was roaring. He couldn’t tell, at that point, if Derek was soothing it or making it worse. Was it possible he was doing it both?

They panted in unison. Derek’s hands tightened on Stiles’ ass.

Derek guided him backwards towards the bedroom. His hands never left Derek’s shoulders and their lips never parted for more than a second. He had no concept of space or time.

Derek was more than willing to take over.

Stiles felt the mattress hit the backs of his knees.

He spun Stiles around so he was facing the bed. He had to plant his palms flat on the mattress to stop himself from flinging face first into the dark fabric of Derek’s sheets. Before Stiles could voice some smarmy comment, Derek was back to attacking his neck. He sucked and bit at the skin. Stiles’ eyes drew shut. His head hung between his spread arms. Derek pulled his shirt collar further down to reveal more skin.

Derek's arms were on either side of him; caging him in.

The neckline bit into Stiles’ throat as Derek sucked down his spine. He shivered.

He shoved between Stiles’ legs, spreading him further. He massaged his knee into Stiles’ crotch.

He bucked forward, grinding into the mattress. Into Derek's knee. The man got closer, until they were chest-to-back. Derek’s need was pressed flush against his ass.

Because he was an antagonistic devil, he shoved backward onto the hard line.

He choked out a breath and thrusted forward. Stiles ached.

His breath was heavy in Stiles’ ear. "You don’t know his long I’ve wanted to do this." He thrusted against Stiles’ clothed ass again. A needy nose rose low in his throat.

He turned Stiles back around, facing him, then lifted him onto the bed. Derek pulled him further up and climbed over him. He loomed over the teen. An animalistic glint in his eyes. Like a wolf cornering its prey.

"How long I've wanted to undress you. Wanted to know how you felt…" Derek crooned, cupping Stiles’ jaw. He licked a strip on his collarbone.

Stiles was painfully hard.

Butterflies danced in his stomach. His whole body was buzzing from where Derek was touching.

Derek’s hand slithered under Stiles’ t-shirt to rub his sensitive nipples. Stiles’ eyes, that’d been closed for a good minute, opened sharply when he felt Derek’s other hand slowly hiking his shirt up. And he realized: sex=naked. Naked= Extremely Uncomfortable.

He panicked, sitting up on an elbow. He put his hand in the center of Derek’s hard- _massive and beautiful and firm-_ chest.

Derek stopped immediately, looking into Stiles’ eyes. The green was so intense.

"I don’t-I-" he took a breath "-clothes. Being off. Scars and stuff. It's, um-" Stiles stumbled, removing his hand from Derek’s chest to gesture in a vague sweeping motion over his body.

The man leaned forward and planted a warm kiss to Stiles’ jaw. "It’s fine."

He laughed sharply. "Um, it's not fine."

Derek stared at him until he squirmed.

"I, just- it’s hard to do _this_ when I don’t look like," he gave Derek a long pass " _that._ "

Derek ran a broad hand over the flat plane of Stiles’ stomach. "I think it’d be strange if you looked like me."

Stiles laughed again. His face was reddening. He leaned forward to press his forehead to Derek’s. "You can't laugh or anything because I will definitely cry or barf or something."

Derek pulled back to give him a look that said, ‘ _you just mentioned barf pre-sex’._

Stiles could only giggle breathlessly at the look, giddy with lust and nerves.

Derek took his time, peeling away Stiles’ shirt like he was unwrapping a present. He kissed the pale skin on his stomach. Stiles put his head in his hands; face bright red. He licked at the purple scars littering his abdomen. Stiles felt embarrassment like he’d never felt before.

He’d almost prefer Derek being revolted. Anything but treating him like he wasn't disgusting.

The man jerked on Stiles’ zipper, forcing his jeans open and down. "Derek, please don’t do this," Stiles begged, face hiding behind his hands. Derek kissed the pale scars on his thighs.

"Do what?" He asked innocently, dipping down to lick at his inner thigh.

"Treat me like I’m-"

His voice broke off in an indrawn moan.

Derek’s hand was inside his boxer shorts and gripping his cock. "Like you’re what?" He played with Stiles, eyes unreadable.

"Like I’m beautiful."

Derek said nothing but continued to kiss Stiles' thighs. He wanted to cry from…he didn’t know. Embarrassment/relief/pure stimulation. But he didn’t want it to stop.

"If you want me to stop, I will," Derek said, looking up at Stiles.

The teen shook his head. "I-I want this."

The man pushed Stiles' boxer shorts down just enough for him to cup his balls, kneading them.

"Do you like that?" Derek husked.

Stiles mewled, needy. He felt like he was in the desert. Sweat pooled at his clavicle. Derek mouthed at his neck.

"Derek," he pleaded. He pressed against him, trying to get closer. The heat was unbearable. The man pulled his shirt over his head. Then jerked on his own pants, opening them enoughto free his cock.

He was thick and long. The head flushed a deep red.

He licked his lips, gasping in an excited breath. His eyes followed the vein running on the underneath of Derek's cock. He liked when Stiles nipped at it. He wanted to suck him off, right there. But it wasn't the time for that.

"Please," Stiles begged. He didn’t know what he wanted. He was dripping and so hard it hurt.

Derek cursed against Stiles’ hip. He continued to dine on every inch of flesh, leaving trails of bruises and saliva.

He sucked a spot on the teen’s inner thigh and rubbed his face on it. The moan it elicited was ungodly.

How lewd he looked: wet from need and red with stubble burn.

He reached and took Derek’s cock into his hands. He pumped with split-slick palms. Once. Twice. The older man started panting.

A long groan left Derek’s mouth, overwhelmed by those fingers touching him. He brushed Stiles hand away. If he wanted to last, there’d be no more of that.

Stiles furrowed his brow in confusion when Derek swatted at his hands.

The man kissed Stiles’ forehead, breaths puffing against the damp skin. "Babe, I’m not gonna make it if you keep touching me like that."

The lube was on the nightstand. The condoms were-

Derek kissed Stiles' cheek. "Condoms are in the bathroom," he hopped up, half dressed.

"Seriously," he heard Stiles huff.

Derek squatted to rifle under the sink. He pulled out the unopened box and-

it was water logged.

He'd forgotten about the leaky pipe.

Maybe they'd be fine. He opened the seal. The printed writing had washed off from the constant moisture.

He looked at the expiration date on the box, just to be sure.

...three years wasn't so bad, right?

He leaned his head against the cabinet. There went sex.

Damn it.

He walked out of the bathroom, holding the useless condoms.

Stiles was propped up on his elbow. He looked at Derek.

"I don't-" he held the box of ruinded condoms,"-fuck. I'm sorry."

Stiles sat up on his knees. His cocked bobbed against his stomach. "It's not that bad."

Derek shook his head and pitched them into the trash bin.

Stiles watched him. "I mean, we don't _have_ to use-"

"No." Derek walked to the edge of the bed.

"You're right. I'm sixteen and a baby would really mess things up."

Derek gave him a look.

"Kidding." Stiles' hooked his arms on Derek's shoulders. "But seriously."

"Stiles-"

"My virgin ass is obviously clean. So I don't see the problem unless you have anything...?"

Derek's last test had been after the last time he'd had sex. Which was a long, long time ago. "Yes," he confirmed.

Stiles kissed his jaw. "So what's the hold up?"

"Are you sure?"

He rolled his eyes. "Yes. Now _please take care of me_." He was aching.

Derek aquiesced. He leaned Stiles back, giving light caresses to his cock. Teasing him back to full hardness.

His own dick started to plump back up as Stiles' hips lifted to get more contact. More pressure.

He slid off Stiles' pants and underwear, leaving him on the bed. Panting and completely naked. Hard and needy for Derek.

He dropped chaste kisses in a trail up Stiles’ chest to his ear.

"On your stomach," Derek murmured, breathing heavily. He helped Stiles turn over. A pillow materialized in his hand and he was pushing it under Stiles' lap. The effect was his ass in the air; completely presented to Derek. Stiles felt more exposed than he ever had. He forced himself to take a breath.

Derek slid his hands over Stiles’ thighs. His touch quieted Stiles' mind. The man dragged his parted mouth across Stiles' spine. It made him shiver.

Derek shuffled back to sit between his spread thighs.

There was a pause, both of them breathed heavily into the quiet room. One of Derek's hands left Stiles' hip. The plastic sound of a cap filled the room. Stiles' cock throbbed heavily between his thighs in eager anticipation. He pressed into a pillow; his arms nestled beneath it.

He placed both hands on Stiles’ ass, spreading him enough to expose his hole. Derek coated his hand with lube. He ran a slick thumb over his entrance.

His middle finger circled Stiles’ rim before pushing inside.

The burn was almost enough to make Stiles scream. His hips pulled away in an automatic response to the alien feeling. The pillow under him prevented his complete escape.

Derek whispered small encouragements against his spine.

The feeling of wrongness gave way to a small amount of pleasure as he adjusted. Derek began fucking the finger into him, knuckle deep.

The second was added a little later, after he asked if it felt OK. Stiles breathed out ' _yes'._ Derek wanted to swallow the noises Stiles tried to muffle into the pillow.

There was slight friction; either from Derek not being generous enough with the lube or just because Stiles was a virgin. It didn’t really matter, because fuck- friction was good. Derek scissored his joined fingers.

The third had him moaning. The pain making it that much better.

Derek braced a hand on the back of Stiles’ slim thigh, blunt fingernails pressed into the milky skin. The splatter of moles across his pale body was like dark drops of paint on a canvas. Specks of chocolate in white mocha.

His moans became more fervent. Derek gave Stiles' cock a long, slow pump.

"You're so wet for me," he breathed over Stiles’ shoulder blades as he withdrew his fingers.

His prepared hole quivered and pulsed at the momentary loss.

Stiles' voice was a raw, rasping whisper. "Please." He started bucking his hips. He wanted, no, _needed_ more. He needed Derek.

He rolled Stiles over, propping the pillow under his ass, giving him a better angle.

He grabbed at Stiles’ thigh, spreading him open. He guided the tip of his cock to his entrance.

Derek had to bite his tongue not to scream as he pushed forward. Soft velvet surrounded him.

Stiles shut his eyes.

"Don’t. I want to see you," he said, hand moving to brush against Stiles' cheek.

He slid his hand further down on Stiles' ass, to his rim where Derek could feel himself disappear inside.

They panted loudly into the thick air between them.

"Fuck," Derek groand, slamming his head back.

They paused. All heavy breathing and aching arousal.

His whole body screamed to thrust into the tight heat surrounding his dick. He forced himself not to move. Not until Stiles could take it.

"Good?" Derek asked after an eternity.

Stiles only sucked in a breath, out of words. He pulled the man closer, indicating how 'good' he was.

Derek slowly pushed forward. He stabbed at that little bundle of nerves and Stiles' mind shut off.

"There?" Derek grabbed those long legs, pushing them up and over his shoulders. Stiles was almost bent in half.

Derek pulled out, dragging the head of his cock along Stiles' rim. They made eye contact as Derek slammed forward.

Their movement, along with the angle the pillow provided them, pushed Derek balls deep. Stiles' hole twitched and clenched around Derek's cock as he hit his prostate again. His legs trembled on Derek's shoulders.

He was on cloud nine each time he was buried inside of Stiles’ heat. He'd push himself as deep as he could go and grind his hips in a circular motion. Hitting his prostate dead on each time he pulled out and slammed back in.

One of Stiles’ hands was lying flat on Derek’s chest, fingers sliding rapidly through the sprout of fine, dark hair by the force of his thrusts. Stiles could feel the rapid heartbeat beneath his palm.

He hissed a breath a pleasure before shouting Derek's name.

His pace quickened. He could feel the orgasm start to build low in his gut. From his toes to his contracting chest. He grinded his hips.

Stiles gasped his name like a prayer.

The slick slapping of skin against skin was wet and absolutely filthy. But so incredibly hot.

One hand settled on Stiles' throat, thumb coming to rest next to his windpipe.

Derek didn’t apply any pressure. Nor did he remove his hands. It was an anchor.

Stiles swallowed and felt the weight with the motion.

Derek's thrusts became too erratic and desperate to continue fucking Stiles while on his knees, the teen's legs over his shoulders. His body fell, blanketing Stiles.

Stiles let out a winded breath as he was bent further in half. Derek helped move his legs from over his shoulders to instead wrap around his torso. His boney knees pressed into Derek's ribs. He didn't give a fuck. Neither of them did.

Derek kept his weight supported by a hand next to Stiles' head.

"I- I'm almost there-" Stiles gasped. Derek could feel him shiver.

"Fuck. You feel perfect." Derek’s hips snapped out of pace. "Like you were made to take my cock."

"Touch me, Derek," Stiles begged, clenching around him. The sensation rippled between Derek's cock in his ass and his hand on his throat.

Stiles’ dick rubbed against Derek's abs with every thrust. It wasn't enough. The man let go of his throat to wrap around Stiles' dripping arousal.

"Fuck," he panted, head pressing back into the pillows. "-that's-" He gasped, eyes fluttering shut in stunned pleasure.

"Yeah?" Derek breathed, jerking Stiles’ cock.

Every movement of Derek’s hips was directly connected to his straining cock. Hitting that spot inside with every rapid thrust.

There was a flush spreading across Stiles' chest, his hair was a mess, lips shiny with spit.

He looked absolutely wrecked.

"Derek," he whined.

Derek closed his fist tighter around Stiles' cock.

He came with a strangled scream, shooting himself onto Derek’s stomach. He kissed him, swallowing down his scream.

Stiles tightened impossibly around him.

Derek only fucked into him harder, chasing his own ending. He felt as if he'd been set on fire.

"Stiles," he panted, voice thick. "You're so fucking perfect."

Stiles wrapped his arms around Derek's neck, lazily kissing his jaw. Occasionally biting his lips.

He wasn't responding to the kisses. His heart was hammering almost painfully against his ribs.

He stilled his hips where he was buried deep in Stiles. His whole body trembled as the orgasm washed over him with such force his vision went white.

Derek pulled out until the tip was barely clinging to his used hole. He was still coming in thick, white strips. On Stiles' thighs, into his winking hole. Still hard and shooting, he pressed back into Stiles.

Kisses became him rubbing against Derek’s scruffy cheek.

Derek tilted his head to the side and dropped his forehead onto Stiles’ shoulder, softening cock pressed into his over sensitive hole.

 

He patted a damp towel down Stiles' stomach. Then moved to his thighs. "Do you feel OK?"

Stiles huffed a laugh. "As OK as I can be considering you just fucked my brains out."

"-Are you sure?"

Stiles pulled him up to nuzzle against his neck. "Yes."

Derek threw the towel somewhere. He'd deal with it later. He kissed Stiles lazily. "I love you," he said against his lips.

Stiles giggled. "I _really_ like it when you say that."

"What about: I love you, babe."

"Mhmm. Even better." Stiles kissed him again.

The room was still. Their breathing filled the silence.

Derek moved closer, wrapping an arm around Stiles’ waist. The other pillowed his head. He pressed his nose behind Stiles’ ear, breathing deeply. The strands tickled his nose.

"Who said I wanted to be the little spoon?" Stiles slurred, voice thick with sleep.

Derek’s smile was lost to the darkness. He huffed against Stiles’ neck, planting a kiss there. "Did you want to be the big spoon?"

"Well, yeah." _Obviously._

"Too bad." Derek's voice was muffled against soft, pale skin.

Stiles huffed and adjusted his head on Derek’s arm. "Rude."

He was safe. His mind blissfully quiet. Nothing could touch them.

They slept, Stiles’ back warmed by Derek’s chest.

　

　


	8. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue. Fluff, I guess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters at once. Aren't you lucky (*winks*)  
> Please read and enjoy!!  
> I look forward to reading your comments about the end!

"Derek, come here!" Stiles yelled from the bottom of the basement steps.

No answer. He huffed. "Derekkkkkkk."

Silence.

He changed tactics. "If you don’t come down here right now, I’m not having sex for a month!"

Derek’s head appeared around the edge of the door. "What’s up, babe?" He asked, starting to descend the wooden steps.

 _Typical._ Stiles made a sweeping gesture to a box labeled ‘HIGHSCHOOL STUFF’ in black marker. "Shouldn’t we throw this away or something?" He looked to his husband.

Derek grabbed the box and efficiently opened the cardboard flap. "We can sort through it. This was when we met…I don’t want to throw it all away." He sat on his butt and tugged the box closer. Stiles sat next to him.

"We'll have a 'keep' pile and a 'throw away' pile," he said.

Derek nodded and pulled out a stack of paper. "These are..." He flicked through the pile. "-these are notes."

He handed half of them to Stiles. They were the ones they left each other. Quotes, jokes. A tradition Stiles started.

"This is the note you left for me the day I was supposed to get my acceptance letter for college." Stiles passed the note to Derek.

 _"It will either be a disaster, or everything will be hunky dory,"_ he read aloud. It was Peter Shoot's catchphrase.

"It made me laugh," Stiles said.

"Considering you were so close to crying, I'd say that's a good thing."

"Was not." They stacked the notes in the keep pile.

"Whatever you say."

 

They moved after Stiles graduated. To escape the shadows of the Hale fire and the stains of Stiles' parents.

New York had been Derek's home for years. Stiles' university was there. So why not?

Derek quit teaching. If it was found out he married a student, there would be speculation. And Stiles made it clear teaching was not for him anyway. Too much 'human interaction'.

He became a personal trainer. His scary demeanor was an incredible motivator, apparently. There were a lot of lonely housewives. Stiles found the 'cougar tales' (as he called Derek's stories) hilarious.

Stiles went to school for something really complicated involving technology and programs and software. All Derek got out of the title was some kind of animating thing. He now designed software for video games and occasionally Google pet projects. Which was a big deal, Derek had been told. He didn't understand but he was proud. The coursework had looked about as fun as a lobotomy.

Stiles retrieved a magenta eraser. "Why’s this in here?"

Derek scratched the back of his neck. "When we were moving I found it in a drawer so I just tossed it in."

He rummaged through a plastic container with similar items. Three mechanical pencils of varying colors. Folded doodles long since forgotten. He tried to pick up a black zombie string doll by its chain. A colorful tail of scrap-made origami cranes, paper clips, and a button followed.

Stiles side eyed Derek. "Do you have a hoarding problem?"

Derek bumped his shoulder, causing Stiles to drop the doll.

He just laughed and picked up the plastic container of various…things. "But seriously, why’d you keep this stuff?"

Derek cast his gaze into the box, powerful arms sifting through its contents. "That’s the stuff you’d always leave at my loft."

"And you kept it because…?"

He shrugged. "I wanted to."

Stiles set the container in the throw away and turned back to see what else was in there. "That’s kind of weird, dude."

Derek glared in that straight-faced kind of way he did every time Stiles called him ‘dude’. "To be fair, I’m surprised you can even make it out of the house with both shoes on."

"What’s that supposed to mean?"

Derek crossed his arms. "It means that everywhere you go, you leave with half of what you came there with."

"Well, I never," he said, pitching his voice higher.

 

He began fiddling with a stack of slim paper backs.

Derek picked up a battered copy of Dante's _Inferno_. He opened to a random page and pressed flower petals fell onto his lap. He looked down and asked: "Why are these in here?"

Stiles helped pick up the petals and reorganized them on the open pages. He shrugged. "You gave me these on Valentine's day, that first February we were dating."

"...You and I remember that day for very different reasons." Stiles' brow furrowed. "That was the first time you gave me a blow job-" Stiles cuffed him with a copy of _Hamlet_.

"Pervert," he said, placing the book in the keep pile.

"It was nice, just to let you know." Derek nodded to himself. " _Very_ nice."

Stiles ignored him, though he was trying not to smile.

"But I'm surprised you kept them."

He placed the other books in the keep pile. "That wasn't, _isn't_ , a good month for me. And that was the first time someone had given me flowers soooo..."

"And you say I'm the hoarder," Derek said under his breath.

He didn't comment, instead picking up a bundle of cards and sliding one out at random.

It was the card he'd given Derek for his twenty eighth birthday. On the front was a picture of a wolf with birthday cake. In glittery pick letters, it said: " _Today you can have your cake and eat it too..."_ He opened it to reveal more gaudy lettering. " _...In fact, you can WOLF it down! Happy birthday!"_

"It's definitely a Stiles card," Derek said.

The keep pile was growing. "You know you love my puns."

Derek gave him a look that said otherwise. He fished out a ziplock baggie of photos.

Stiles looked over his shoulder as he thumbed through the pictures.

"Wait, when did you get this one?" He pointed to one of him flipping off the camera with Lydia, Jackson and Scott photobombing in the back. All thoroughly trashed.

"This was Lydia's pre-pre wedding party," Derek answered

"Ohhh. I remember...parts of that."

"That's because the four of you were black out by eleven."

Lydia and Jackson ended up getting hitched. They got back together sometime Junior year, something Stiles could never one hundred percent understand, considering how bad their break up had been but whatever. It was none of his business. After going through counseling for so long, Jackson had changed. He felt guilty for how he treated Stiles. It's not like he held a grudge against the blond former-bully anymore (well, maybe not for the fight. But the years of horse's assery were negative cool and that still bothered him off. Probably would forever). So he was kind of forgiven. That didn't mean they were good friends. But it was pretty all right.

"This was from Lydia's party senior year. The one for Allison and Scott." Stiles pointed to a picture of the couple kissing.

There was another picture of them hand in hand, both smiling widely. It was from their wedding. Allison and Scott got married the month they were both eighteen. March of their senior year. They had a three year old son named Tyler (and Stiles was the best god father ever). Allison was pregnant with their second. Another boy. They had his sympathies. Tyler was already a handful. Now there'd be two little boys with Scott's genes? Rough.

There were some photos from Stiles' and Derek's wedding. All of them had people in varying degrees of intoxication.

 

Telling everyone had been interesting. His friends' reactions, well those who didn't know about their relationship beforehand (Scott), had been comical.

"You- but-" Scott looked between their faces, eyes huge. "-no way. No way."

Stiles found his reaction to be a great source of comedy. Derek swatted him after he doubled over in a fit of laughter.

"Scott, I'm sorry but it was kind of obvious," he'd said, not even attempting to contain his amusement.

His mouth was hanging open, eye brows furrowed. He looked betrayed. He turned to Allison. "Did you know?"

She squinted her eyes, trying not to smile as she said: "No...?"

He put his hand to his chest. "You knew! And didn't tell me?"  
"I mean, it was pretty obvious..." she looked to Stiles, her own smile threatening to turn into giggles as he starting laughing again, so hard he made no noise.

Scott's mind was on the verge of exploding. "I can't believe you." He shook his head. "Were you ever going to tell me?"

Stiles straightened up. "Well, I'm telling you now."

Derek nudged him in the shoulder. "And why are we telling him now, Stiles...?"

"Oh yeah, we're getting married."

Scott tackled him in a jump-hug. They fell to the ground.

Allison, who'd been trying so hard, finally lost it.

 

Derek proposing had been a surprise. A huge fucking surprise.

Stiles was graduated, ready for college in August. Derek had turned in his resignation before summer began. They were in the process of packing up and making the trek to New York.

In Derek's mind, it was the next logical step.

Stiles, apparently, hadn't given it much thought.

"Derek, what are you doing?"

"I just asked you to marry me, ring in hand, and you're asking me what I'm doing?"

Stiles cocked his head, staring in confusion at the man on his knee. "You, want to marry...me?"

Derek took a breath. "You're making this difficult."

Stiles crouched to make eye contact. "Seriously, though?"

Derek stood up. "You know what? I change my mind..." he turned his back to leave.

Stiles caught him in a hug. "Nonono, wait-"

Derek stopped. He was holding back a smile. "Is this a yes?"

Stiles nodded against his back. "Yes, oh my-fuck yes."

That night, after world endingly good sex, Stiles woke Derek out of a dead sleep to ask: "You're sure you like me? Like, _like like_ me?"

He shoved a pillow into his face.

So the proposal hadn't gone according to plan, which shouldn't have been surprising because everything about Stiles' whole being spit in the face of any 'plan', but it had been memorable.

 

There was still the issue of John.

Stiles had moved out of his father’s house officially when he turned eighteen. Since The Really Bad Night when he was sixteen, he'd moved in with Scott until May their senior year. Then stayed with Derek until they moved away.

"Should we tell my dad?"

Derek held him from behind. He rested his chin on Stiles' shoulder, looking at the list of people who'd be attending.

"It's your choice."

Stiles nodded. "I mean- he's not coming. That's a given. But I want to tell him, at least."

So Derek had supported him. They'd gone to his childhood home to explain.

Stiles did the talking.

"We’re getting married." "You’re not invited." That kind of thing.

John had shouted at them. "You’ll never have my blessing." Shouted at Derek. "You took my son away."

Stiles walked away. He wasn’t a kid anymore, trembling at his father’s boot. Or so he kept telling himself. John would not see him upset.

Before following him, Derek bit out: "I didn’t take Stiles away. He walked out on his own. Because you _drove_ him away."

He'd been silent on the way home. Their home. "I don't know what I expected."

Derek held his hand.

 

They were married that summer. Lydia insisted on setting everything up. She had a huge lady boner for weddings, Stiles had come to find.

It was a small gathering. Derek never thought his life would turn out like this. Getting married to someone he loved. To someone who loved him just as much in return.

They'd built a life together. They were happy. Content.

 

"This is one of my favorites from the reception." Derek handed the picture over.

It was Stiles mid laugh, with Boyd and Erica on either side, kissing his cheeks.

The couple was currently back packing across Europe. Their postcards were amazing. She sent Stiles pictures of every oddity that came across their path. Sometimes he'd wake up with four messages, with photos, about a dish they'd eaten and how tasty it was. It always made him smile.

There was a wrinkled polaroid of John and Claudia. They were in the hospital, holding a newborn Stiles. They were both smiling.

Stiles held the picture. He was smiling too.

 

Recovery was still a long tumultuous road for Stiles. There’d been times of relapse.

Stiles had gained fifteen pounds in the summer of his senior year. When he stepped on the scale, he’d cried for an hour. The next month he’d eat nothing but cream cheese bagels with tomatoes. He lost the weight he’d gained, which put him underweight again.

That was the first major relapse.

It was a vicious cycle but Derek was always there. From the time he’d walked in on Stiles slicing his wrists in the bathroom, to the time he’d found out Stiles had purged twice in a week, or when he'd used a whole bottle of Benadryl in three days.

Derek had been angry. Frustrated with himself, as well as Stiles. They’d fought.

But things turned out…OK. Because Derek was beginning to understand Stiles’ mental health wasn’t a personal affront against him. He wasn’t doing those things out of spite or anger. He was doing it to feel better.

Derek understood this wasn’t something he’d just grow out of. And he was at peace with that. It worried and scared him but together they could do it.

There’d been other such occasions over the years. His blow ups happened less and less frequently. Though they’d always be there. Hovering at the horizon.

The last time they'd seen John was three months before Stiles turned twenty two.

After the pre-wedding incident, that’d been it. For years.

Stiles had arrived at their apartment before Derek that day.

From what he'd said, John had been waiting there. He’d found them through his sheriff connections. Naturally, Stiles refused to let him in. But seeing him again had awakened those same feelings as when he’d been a teenager and scared and helpless.

Derek had found him sitting at the table, staring into nothing.

Stiles was quiet the next few days and Derek was scared.

When he found him on the bathroom floor three days later, with bleeding arms, Derek hugged him. Stiles told him about the growing fear and reminders. He cursed John as he held the injured love of his life. How dare he. Stiles had been doing so well.

"I thought…I thought I was over everything with him. But when I saw him, I just- it was like nothing ever changed. When I saw his face, that _fear_ I felt everyday- everything just came rushing back and I felt sixteen and helpless again."

Derek called the number John left at their door. He blew up. "Do you know how much progress he’d made?" John got the message and hadn't tried to meet them since.

After a year, he started writing them letters.

Stiles replied sometimes. Always brief, cordial. Impersonal. They only talked on his terms. About things he dictated. It was all about control. Having control made him feel safe.

John had been sober three consecutive years now. He was in counseling. Part of his recovery was to make amends for the things he did in the past. So he’d apologized to Stiles.

They’d talked about it. It was one of those sleepless nights, under the cover of the night sky, Derek asked if he’d ever be able to forgive John. If the older man had been in Stiles' shoes, he wouldn't be able to. He'd take it to the grave.

Stiles snuggled closer, hiding against his muscled side. He had a habit of tracing the tiny puffs of scar tissue that roped his torso. "I don’t know. Forgiving is something I can do, you know? But forgetting is…" he took a shuddering breath in. "…different."

Derek kissed him. Stiles was a lot kinder than he was.

 

He was twenty four now.

He’d filled out over the last couple of years. Still a little thin, in Derek’s opinion, but the unhealthy, fragile hollows of his body were gone.

His scars were still there. Though many were too light to see. Some would be there forever. The burns on his thighs and stomach. The deep cuts on his wrists that, in hindsight, could’ve been fatal all those years ago.

He’d been talking about getting tattoos to cover them up. Derek just wanted Stiles to feel comfortable in his own skin.

 

In the end, the keep pile was bigger than the throw away pile. Not surprising.

They sat there, surrounded by the past, good and bad. Stiles rested his head on Derek's shoulder.

"I'm glad you were such an asshole Sophomore year."

Derek wrapped his arm around Stiles' waist. "Thanks, babe."

"If you hadn't made me run laps for skipping class that day, our lives could've ended up very differently." The connotation was heavy.

Derek responded by leaning forward and kissing him. Against his lips, he said: "I'll remember to be an asshole more often then. No telling what I could pass up being _nice._ "

Stiles laughed. His throat felt tight.

　

Stiles lived life dancing on a knife's edge. A careful balancing act. Always a step away from capsizing.

But he didn't have to brave the storm by himself.

He wasn't alone.

　

　

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap!  
> Stiles and Derek found happiness in the end. Yay! 
> 
> I know this story is immensely flawed but even so, I hope those of you going through similar situations have found some catharsis reading this. Which is ultimately why I wrote it.  
> Thank you for taking this year long journey with me. I know I wasn't consistent with updating but you had patience anyway. Every kudo, every comment, makes the long hours of writing and editing worth it!!
> 
> Bonus:  
> "Ohh babe, you had a crush on me. That's embarrassing."  
> "Stiles, we're married."  
> "Still..."

**Author's Note:**

> NO RAGRETS  
> "Really? No regrets? Not any? Not even one letter?"

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Water's All Around (Can't You See I'm Drowning)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5991919) by [woa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/woa/pseuds/woa)




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